


Heart of Gold

by barelypink



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: AU, Art Museums, Bathtubs, Coming Out, David is an escort, Ex's and Oh's, Fireworks, First Kiss, First Time, Hiking, Light Angst, M/M, NYC, Names, Patrick's POV, Pretty Woman AU, Prostitution, Teasing, alternative universe, art history lessons, developing feelings, fake relationships, piano playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-08 07:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelypink/pseuds/barelypink
Summary: Or David is a hooker with a heart of gold, AKA the Pretty Woman AU you never knew you wanted. Canon compliant up through season one. Instead of running out of gas at the Amish farm when fleeing Schitt’s Creek, David makes it to NYC where he becomes a high-end escort in order to make ends meet. He’s the consummate professional until he meets Patrick Brewer and takes a chance on his own fairy tale.





	1. no one could look as good as you (mercy)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time doing this for any fandom, so thank you to Dan Levy for making this happen for us. I tried to abandon this several times, but it wouldn’t let me quit it, which I found incredibly rude. All the chapter titles come from songs on the Pretty Woman soundtrack. Some lines of dialogue shamelessly stolen from both Schitt’s Creek and Pretty Woman. I have zero regrets

TUESDAY

Patrick Brewer is the youngest vice president at Toronto's top investment bank. The candles had barely stopped smoking on his 30th birthday cake when the promotion came through. He celebrated by breaking up with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Rachel, saying he “just wasn’t able to give her what she needed right now.” Like a schmuck.

He found he liked the idea of missing her more than he actually missed her. He went back to her again and again, like a moth drawn to a candle whose flame he couldn’t comprehend, but still found comforting. And he was starting to miss her again….or miss the idea of her again. Patrick was very confused.

He has no time to dwell on that now though. He’s come to New York City to woo the CEO of a multi-billion dollar private family business who is finally ready to sell his company so they can take it public. If Patrick can beat out the other hungry wolves circling this fresh meat, he’d personally stand to make a lot of money on the IPO. Maybe then he’d slow down a bit. Maybe then he’d finally take a vacation that doesn’t end with him scurrying home two days early to put out another fire and demonstrate his “dedication to the team.” Maybe then he’d finally figure out what his heart wants.

Patrick flings his bags onto the king size bed in his executive suite in the Four Seasons with a sigh. It’s the most expensive hotel in the Financial District--even in Canadian dollars--and it’ll be his home for however long it takes him to secure this deal with Raine Incorporated. No more than a week, he promises himself. He never sleeps well on business trips. Especially business trips to New York City, a city he finds highly overrated. He desperately needs a drink.

The hotel bar is desolate—it’s not quite noon on a scorching summer afternoon--when Patrick slides into a high chair at the bar and orders his customary whiskey. He is one swallow down when he feels rather than hears someone grunt his way into the chair next to him.

Todd Phillips. The managing director here to “oversee” the deal, but who would, if given the chance, gladly throw Patrick under the bus if it all goes to shit.

Why is every douchebag named Todd?, Patrick wonders not for the first time. Why are all Todds douchebags? What came first? The Todd before the douche or the douche before the Todd? The financial world is littered with them and their country club memberships and inherited Ivy League pedigrees. Big egos and tiny dicks. Every Todd should come with their own polo shirt emblazoned with that motto, Patrick thinks.

“So Big P,” Todd claps his smarmy hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “You ready to have a good time in the Big Apple?”

“Once again, it’s just Patrick.” Patrick brushes off Todd’s hand, barely hiding his disdain. It’s the same dance every deal. They’re supposed to be working together, but Patrick will do all the work while Todd drinks and plays golf in the name of “forging strong business connections.”

“I’m not here to have a good time. I’m here to close a deal. Just having a drink before going over the models for this afternoon’s meeting. I still think I want to make the DCF curves a little more dynamic--”

“Dude. You need to lighten up, Pat. I guarantee Mr. Raine does not need nor want dynamic curves from a financial model. I know that Excel gets you all hot and bothered, but maybe you should invest in a different kind of model this time.”

Todd slides a glossy black business card across the bar. He has no shame, and Patrick doesn’t need to look at it to know what it is. Patrick regards Todd’s golden wedding band and not for the first time, feels sorry for whatever poor soul had actually agreed to marry him.

“I’m not interested, Todd. I have a girlfriend.” But then he remembers that he doesn’t. Not right now, at least. It’s just habit to say he does.

“So?” Todd scoffs, “I’ve got a wife and a kid back home. Hasn’t stopped me yet.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Patrick feels slick revulsion slide down the back of his throat. But his whiskey is now gone, and he can’t swallow it away without ordering another drink. He needs to keep his head clear. He’s here to do a job and get out.

Suddenly, his mouth is desert dry. He signals the bartender.

Todd drains his glass and smacks it down on the counter. “Listen, Brewer. This job will eat you alive if you don’t learn how to mix a little fun into it.” He picks up the card and slips it into the front pocket of Patrick’s blue button down. “Live a little.” He claps Patrick’s shoulder harder than strictly necessary and saunters out of the room.

Patrick thinks that is maybe the smartest thing he has ever heard come out of Todd’s mouth. He feels the card burning against his chest, but he leaves it where it is.

_Live a little_, he thinks to himself with a hint of bitterness. He wonders what that would be like.

***

“Well, Patrick, I’m impressed by your numbers. I can tell your reputation is well-earned.” Mr. Raine shakes his hand and Patrick feels relief course through his body. Their first meeting has gone well, but they still have a long way to go before closing the deal. He knows there are other companies vying for this chance.

“Thank you, sir. You’ll be in good hands with us.”

“You should come to our company gala tomorrow night. You can meet my family and some of the other execs.” Mr. Raine is looking at Patrick and Todd expectantly.

Patrick glances up. It’s not unusual to be invited out to drinks after a meeting, but a company party? With the whole family? The whole family who needs to sign off on his company taking over their assets? This feels like a trap.

Patrick gulps. “Thank you, Mr. Raine. We’d be honored.”

“Bring a date. This is not strictly business.”

“Oh, but my girlfriend is back in Toronto.” Except he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He keeps forgetting.

Mr. Raine appraises Patrick with a cock of his head and Patrick feels suddenly like he’s skating on thin ice. “Surely a handsome man like you can find a date for the evening. I don’t like wallflowers.”

Patrick tries to paste on his best smile, but he can feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of his neck. At the opposite end of the table, Todd is practically floating out of his chair with glee. “Oh, don’t worry about us, Edward. I’ve got this—"

“I do...have one friend in the city,” Patrick interrupts. “I could invite him.”

Him?

Mr. Raine nods curtly. “I’ll send the invites. Looking forward to it. Patrick. Todd.” He leaves the room and Patrick falls back into his seat with a tremulous exhale.

Patrick doesn’t have a single friend in the city. So why in the world did he say he does? And him? Why did he say his friend was a him?

Todd cackles as he gathers up his computer and papers. “I hope you still have that card I gave you. I can’t wait to meet your ‘friend.’”

***

Back in his pristine hotel room, Patrick scrubs his face and wills his blurry eyes to focus. He fishes the card out of his discarded shirt, still cocooned in the top pocket, and sits down at his desk. He turns the card over. There is just a phone number and an address to a website. How modern.

Patrick reaches for his computer and types in the URL for Ward and Associates. Ironic name for an escort service. But he knows Todd and his expensive tastes, so he knows this is a high-end operation. It’s going to cost him, but he has no intention of trolling Wall Street for someone off the street.

Could you find a hooker on Wall Street?

Patrick is sure you can, if you know where to look.

He doesn’t know where to look.

And he needs someone presentable, cultured, smooth. He needs someone used to rubbing elbows with rich New Yorkers. He needs a professional. He has no choice, he tells himself. This deal will be the making or the breaking of him. He runs the cost-benefit analysis in his head and decides the investment will be worth it.

Ms. Ward certainly runs a professional operation. Patrick can search her extensive database of companions based on gender, physical features, language, sexual orientation….kinks. Patrick clicks on the men. He said ‘him’, he should find a him. Right? Maybe there is one who specializes in pretending to be longtime friends with straight Canadian businessmen. Patrick ignores the niggling voice in the back of his brain that had propelled him to blurt out ‘him’ in the first place.

Patrick scrolls through image after image and then he sees him. His stomach flip-flops with an unsettling lurch—which, weird—but he knows instantly that he is the one. Dark, perfectly coiffed hair. Exuberant eyebrows to match a perfectly sculpted five o’clock shadow. Chocolate eyes and full lips. The eyes are sad and the smile forced, but Patrick sees tenderness there. Patrick sees promise.

He clicks on the man’s name.

David.

He likes the way it sounds on his tongue, the way it changes shape into something new with each saying.

He enters his request and clicks submit.

***

WEDNESDAY

Patrick has a lot of work to do that day, but he finds the only thing he can think about is the imminent arrival of one David, professional escort, to his hotel room door. Patrick feels dread mingled with heady anticipation. He’s changed his clothes three times, finally settling on his most unoffensive charcoal gray suit. And then there’s a knock on the door and he opens it to reveal the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen up close, in person.

Now he also feels butterflies. He doesn’t hate the feeling.

“Patrick Brewer?” David’s voice is even better than Patrick has imagined. He only manages to nod as he steps aside to let him in.

An entire kaleidoscope of butterflies is trying to explode out of his chest.

He shuts the door with a soft click.

“Hello. David…..?” He only now realizes he hasn’t been given David’s last name. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your last name.”

“No last names,” David twirls around to face Patrick full on, appraising him with discerning eyes, one finger lifted. “That’s rule number one.”

David is taller than him, Patrick realizes, and the thought shoots an unexpected sizzle up his spine. He’s wearing a black sweater with a ladder of white lines descending down his chest and dark jeans and what can only be described as a loincloth. He is broad in the shoulders but narrower in the waist with long, lean legs. He looks like a movie star, but Patrick sees an impish glint in David’s eye. _Oh_, Patrick thinks with delight, _look at him._

Patrick steps forward, acting more self-assured than he really feels. “Oh? And how many rules are there exactly?”

“Depends,” David says flippantly. “How many kinks do you have?”

“Oh. Not many.” Patrick admits, embarrassed. In fact, he doesn’t think he has any kinks at all. Sex is...well, sex is a chore most of the time, but he’s not about to admit that to a prostitute. An escort. A man like David. That isn’t what he was here for, after all. Patrick had said so in his online request. No sex necessary. But one look at David and Patrick wildly thinks that David could teach him a thing or two and also that he’d very much like to let him.

Patrick gropes around for a new subject, not wanting to dwell on his kinks or lack thereof. “So...how long have you been in this line of work, David?” Patrick regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth. He might as well have asked him how old he was.

“Nope. Sorry. Rule number two. No personal details. I am here to be whomever who want me to be for the night.” Patrick can’t help thinking that whoever this David really is, he would be worth the knowing. He’s already fascinated.

Patrick rubs the back of his neck and exhales slowly. “Well, I need to share some personal details with you, don’t I? Or is that against your rules too?”

“No. You can share whatever you like. So tell me about yourself.” David waves his hand in front of him as if setting the stage for the riveting saga of Patrick Brewer.

“OK. So. Well, I’m here on business.”

David tries to stifle a smile. “You don’t say.”

Patrick cocks one irritated eyebrow at David who grins deliciously back.

“This is not my first rodeo on Wall Street,” David admits. “You business majors have a distinct smell. Let me guess.” He pauses to look Patrick up and down, noting the way his ears have turned a rosy blush at the very tips. Precious. “Bond trader? Hedge fund manager?”

Patrick guffaws. “Investment banker.”

“I see.” David looks entirely too pleased with himself. “So Mr. Brewer, what services among my highly curated selection of skills can I interest you in tonight?”

“Yes. Right.” Patrick clears his throat. Down to business; he can do that. “So I’m here to close a deal with a very important client. And he’s invited me and my colleague, Todd, to their company gala tonight and I was encouraged to bring a friend. Told. I was told to bring a friend.”

“I see.” David’s face is unreadable.

“I may have said I had friend in the city. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know anyone in the city really. I’ve only ever been here on business.”

“Well, you should definitely change that sometime. New York can be magical when you see more than the inside of a Four Seasons. But for tonight, we’re just...friends?” David seems a little disappointed. Did he not read the dossier?

“Yeah. Yes. I mean, is that okay? I said my friend was a ‘him’ so I just figured….”

“No, it’s fine.” David visibly re-inflates. “Luckily for you, my mother taught me how to put on a good show. I came prepared.” David taps the black leather bag he brought with him. Patrick hadn’t even noticed it.

“Great. Thanks. This is….this is my first time doing this kind of thing.”

“Oh, that’s obvious.” But David grins at him like he finds it endearing, like he thinks Patrick is the cutest puppy he’s ever seen in a pet store window. Patrick should probably feel embarrassed, but all he feels is relief. “So what party will be graced with my presence tonight?”

“Uh...the invitation is on the desk. It’s at some woman’s house, I think?”

David strolls over to look at the embossed invitation on the desk and reaches down a tentative hand to stroke the raised letters.

“The Whitney. It’s not a woman’s house. It’s an art museum.” David is highly amused at Patrick’s ignorance.

“Oh. Have you been before?”

David says nothing, merely cocks an eyebrow at Patrick.

“Sorry. I just thought you might be able to tell me what to expect. If you’d been.”

David glances up at Patrick like he’s forgotten where he is. David smiles, but it’s a fake one. Patrick can already tell the difference. He’s always been a fast learner.

“I’ve been before.” David looks back down at the invitation.

“Oh, that’s good. I don’t actually know much about art. I only know the difference between Monet and Manet because of Ocean’s Eleven. Well, I know the difference between their names. I don’t think I actually know any of their art.” Is Patrick babbling? He thinks he might be babbling.

“I, for one, am shocked.”

“I find it hard to believe that much shocks you, David No Last Name,” Patrick teases, trying to recover his footing. He turns to the bed to pick up his red tie. It’s a power color, or so he’s been told by every executive he’s worked with. “So Mr. Raine said--”

“Raine,” David interrupts. “Do you mean Edward Raine?”

“Yeah.” Patrick admits. “You know who that is?”

David nods, just once, like it hurts. “Yes, I do. Never met him personally, but I’m familiar with the Raine family and their…uh…businesses.”

Patrick has underestimated David because of, well, because of how he makes his living. He promises himself not to do it again. “Oh. So you know his family’s company is worth billions. I’m negotiating a deal to buy out Mr. Raine’s business so we can take it public. I have to impress him tonight so that he picks my bank to do it. If I can negotiate this, it’ll mean a promotion, a big bonus. I’ll stand to make a lot of money with this IPO.”

“How much money are we talking here? Profane or really offensive?” David’s smile has returned, but Patrick can see it’s still not trickling into his eyes.

“Really offensive.”

David nods to himself, like he’s making up his mind. He nods again, more forcefully this time, and looks up to Patrick, eyes wild and bright.

“Got it. Impress the man, close the deal. I can do that. Just one more question.”

“Of course,” Patrick replies warily and David flashes him another smile, a real one this time, that extends all the way to those dancing eyes.

“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

***

Patrick had requested David arrive early in case they needed time to perfect their stories and create a fake backstory to make their friendship believable. He had not expected that his crash course in friendship with David, International Man of Mystery, would require a new wardrobe. Which is how he finds himself in a private dressing room at Bloomingdale's at four in the afternoon, a flurry of practiced hands pressing and prodding him into expensive new suits while David supervises from a sleek mid-century modern couch, sipping pink champagne.

“Is this strictly necessary?” Patrick asks for the tenth time as a rather handsy sales associate smooths another shirt across his shoulders and down his back lingering just a little too long at his waist.

“You cannot close this deal and get your PPO wearing a basic Brooks Brothers suit,” David assures him.

“IPO,” Patrick corrects as he pulls on another pair of too long pants. “Initial public offering. And it’s worse than that.”

“Worse than what?”

“Worse than Brooks Brothers.”

David closes one eye as if he could no longer look at Patrick with both. “Joseph A. Bank?”

Patrick sucks in some air between his teeth before blurting out, “Men’s Wearhouse”

David nearly drops his champagne flute. “Oh, dear god.”

“On clearance,” Patrick adds, just because he can. He already likes flustering David.

“And you wear these suits to business meetings? With actual people? Like people who can see you?”

Patrick is fascinated by the vaudeville show dancing across David’s face. He is beginning to sense that David might be in the absolute wrong line of work. His face is simply too expressive; every thought telegraphing itself across his brow like a neon sign. He couldn’t contain his emotions if he tried; they practically burst through his hands, now wildly gesticulating in Patrick’s general direction, the lights dancing off wide silver rings. They are nice hands, Patrick’s thinks. Large hands, man’s hands, but still somehow delicate. Patrick wonders how they’d feel in his.

“Yes, I do, David.” Patrick returns.

David’s face is now a horror show. “And you’ve been successful. In business. Wearing these suits?”

Patrick grins at David’s reflection as he stands in front of the three-way mirror, David’s face reflecting back at him. “Yes, David. I’m very successful.”

“Ho…how?” David knits that beautifully expressive brow in confusion.

Patrick shrugs one shoulder, his mouth working hard not to split wide open, “Well, I’m Canadian,” he says, as if that explains it.

“Incorrect!” David leaps to his feet. Patrick is lapping up every bit of it. “I happen to know many people from Canada and they would never be caught dead in a sartorial wasteland like—“he gulps as if the words are painful coming out of his mouth,”—a Men’s Wearhouse.”

“Well, I’m very good at what I do. And it’s never hindered me before.” Patrick has never actually given much thought to the clothes he wears, not the way that he can tell David clearly does. He works such long hours, practically lives in his suits—keeps spares in his office for the nights he just sleeps on his couch instead of going home—so he prizes comfort and durability over fit and fashion. But the shirt currently stretched across his back is light and supple, the pants like velvet down his legs. He also can’t deny they make his ass look great. If you’re into great looking asses.

David gingerly sets his champagne on the glass table beside the couch and storms up to Patrick, eyes critical and searing. “Incorrect,” David repeats, brandishing the word like a sword. “Fashion communicates your place in the world. If you are worth doing business with, my dear Canadian friend, you must dress like you are.”

David steps back to examine Patrick once again, head to toe.

“I’m not sure Tom Ford is the right choice for him,” David addresses the room, “Skinny cut is not his friend unfortunately. He needs a fuller lapel and the pants are all wrong for his thighs.” Patrick feels a thrill at how commanding David is, how the sales assistants immediately stop and pay attention to him. Patrick is used to being the guy in charge, the one calling the shots, and it is strangely intoxicating to be bossed around by someone else….someone like David.

David turns to look Patrick right in the eyes, “You do have nice thighs,” David says with a wink. “Thick like tree trunks.” But the way he rolls it from the back of his tongue through his lips makes it come out like thhhiiiiicccck and Patrick feels the room tilt slightly to the left. His cheeks are burning. He prays that David can’t tell, but also foolishly hopes that he can.

David stops the handsy assistant, arms laden with discarded clothes. “I want to see some Armani, but last year’s collection if you have it. The patterns were better. Maybe Prada. He definitely needs at least one good black suit, but I also want to see some blue. Blue should be his signature color. And get some more ties while you’re at it.”

As the assistant scurries away to satisfy David’s demands, David turns to Patrick, leveling him with a steely gaze and gesturing at his crotch.

“Now, Mr. Brewer. We’re running out of time. Take off your pants.”

Yes. Patrick definitely has a thing for being bossed around by someone like David.

***

In the end, Patrick opts for the [two-piece Prada suit](https://www.bergdorfgoodman.com/p/prada-mens-mohair-tela-two-piece-suit-prod144270093?childItemId=BGN5XFJ_HX&navpath=cat000000_cat202802_cat521724_cat547809_cat255915&page=0&position=6&uuid=PDP_PAGINATION_78260e3bdf2b8c2cb05b985f529380a9_aZiUT8sd6ECjN5cbDTSqN0H59kzoxdgA-qm4yteN.jsession) in bright blue, handing over his credit card in a daze. David throws yet another tie on the pile as the tailor pins up the pants, promising he’ll have the pants hemmed and delivered by 7:30 sharp so they can be fashionably late to the Whitney. David assures him that arriving on time simply isn’t done.

David takes one look at Patrick’s face, reads the rising panic in his eyes, and grabs his hand as he leads him out of Bloomingdale’s and gently guides him into a hole-in-the-wall dim sum place in Chinatown a few blocks away that smells a little bit like heaven.

“The food at these kinds of parties is always unfulfilling,” David says in a calm and measured voice as if he were reassuring a skittish animal. “I’d rather do my shame eating in private first.” And he primly places an entire dumpling in his mouth.

Patrick is struggling to get the hang of his chopsticks; he’s only used them a handful of times with varying results, but David wields them deftly, snatching up even tiny grains of rice with ease. Patrick finally manages to get a dumpling precariously wedged between the wooden chopsticks, but his fingers slip and the dumpling goes soaring through the air.

“Slippery little sucker,” Patrick mutters under his breath, pink with embarrassment.

David tries—and fails—to hide an amused smile. He taps Patrick’s chopsticks with his own. “How’s it going over there?”

Patrick tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a grunt. Maybe a snort. It’s not an attractive sound in either case.

“I’m thinking these are torture devices meant to incapacitate the weak and unlearned. Can’t I just use a fork? I promise I’m good at that.”

“No,” David says with a laugh, scooting the utensils out of Patrick’s reach. “Asian food doesn’t taste right if eaten with a fork.”

David watches him silently for a moment, eyes warm and soft. Fond. Like he’s having a good time even though Patrick nearly took his eye out with a flying potsticker.

“You’re holding on too tightly. You need to relax your hand a bit.” David reaches over and loosens Patrick’s grip and Patrick’s hand feel singed by electricity in the spots where David’s hand had touched his.

“It’s a common mistake,” David says softly, and he’s not wrong. Patrick successfully steers a dumpling into his mouth this time. David nods his head as if proud of his student.

“Nervous about tonight?” David asks, clicking his chopsticks together as he reaches for the last dumpling.

“I’m mostly just nervous about how much I spent on that suit. I’ve never spent so much money on one item of clothing before.”

“Two.”

“What?”

“Technically, it’s two items of clothing since a suit is comprised of both pants and a jacket.”

Patrick stares at David like he would like nothing better than to throttle him. And in not in the fun sexy kind of way.

“Not to mention the shirt and ties we picked out,” David continues. “I still really wish I had gotten you a new belt too. I just know you’re the type to own wrong things like braided belts.”

Patrick cracks a sheepish smile, ducks his head a bit to avoid David’s eyes.

“Oh God, you absolutely do!”

“But David,” Patrick says with mock sincerity, “I got such a great deal on those braided belts at—”

“Oh please, don’t say it.” David looks to the heavens as if in need of divine intervention.

“—the Men’s Wearhouse.”

“Oh, sweet Patrick,” David says, lowering his eyes to meet Patrick’s, “It seems I have come into your life at exactly the right moment. How have you possibly survived this long without me?”

He means it to be flippant, careless, teasing. David means it to be a joke. But somehow it comes out serious, sure. Patrick can already notice the change in his tone and the shift in his eyes. What is it about David that so intrigues and enthralls him?

Patrick replies softly, sure. “I don’t know, David. I honestly don’t know.”

And he means it.

***

They abandon their dumplings and grab a taxi back to the hotel even though it’s less than a mile away from the restaurant. As soon as they return to the hotel room, Patrick showers quickly and then watches silently as David disappears into the bathroom with his black bag of mystery. Patrick paces the floor of his suite, waiting for the knock on his door that will signal the arrival of his dizzyingly expensive suit. He keeps checking the closed door of the bathroom, waiting for David to emerge. After 45 minutes, just when Patrick is sure David must have found some escape route out the bathroom, Patrick hears three curt knocks against his door. Relief floods through him as he grabs the proffered garment bag from the harried delivery man with a brief thank you.

He’s just flinging a tie around his neck when he hears the bathroom door swoosh open and David emerge like a butterfly from his cocoon, trapped steam curling out around him. Patrick turns at the sound, his hands stilling around at his collar, breath whooshing out like he’s been punched in the gut. David is dressed in a well-fitted black suit with a starched white shirt and a skinny black tie. His hair is perfectly styled with not a strand out of place, four silver rings arranged like dominoes on his right hand. He looks like a Christmas present, Patrick thinks recklessly. He wants to open him up.

David locks eyes on Patrick and smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“It looks good,” David says softly, almost tenderly. “Blue was the right choice.”

Patrick swallows and wills his voice to return. “I’ll never doubt you again, David. I feel…I feel good.”

David shrugs with a roll of his eyes, a move he has practiced to perfection. “Prada has that effect on people.”

Patrick attempts to knot his tie with his fumbling fingers, but then David is reaching to still his hands. “This is the wrong tie, friend,” David draws out the word friend, testing its ease on his tongue. “You need something with a little more contrast. It’ll make you stand out more. Tonight, you need to be noticed.”

David ribbons the tie out of Patrick’s hands and selects a new one from the collection of ties on the bed and smiles shyly as he returns to throw it artfully around Patrick’s pink-tinged neck, deft hands knotting it in place. Patrick can see from the reflection in the mirror that the tie David has chosen is silver with bright splashes of green and blue and he thinks they look like a study in contrasts: David in black, all hard lines and searing cheekbones; Patrick in blue, all softened curves and cherub face. He wildly thinks they make a good matched set.

David clears his throat brusquely and Patrick snaps to attention. “Rule number three. Are you listening, Patrick? This one might be the most important.”

“Yes, David,” Patrick replies obediently as David tucks his collar into place.

“No more braided belts.” David leans in slightly and Patrick catches a whiff of David’s cologne, something cedar and citrus but warm, inviting. He smells, Patrick thinks, strangely like home. David massages practiced fingers into Patrick’s stiff shoulders and Patrick laughs, can’t help himself. The tension skitters away as he focuses on the long strokes of David’s manicured hands.

“Well, Mr. Brewer,” David proclaims, removing his hands and Patrick instantly feels their absence, “I think it’s time for us to go nail this PDF.”

“IPO.” But Patrick shakes his head and laughs, giving into the joy that bubbles up within him at the endearing ridiculousness of his hired friend.

David merely throws his hands up in the air, blowing out an exasperated sigh. “I cannot be expected to memorize every word you say.” But Patrick suspects David wants to, want to delight and impress him.

Patrick throws on his jacket, and they head into the hallway, push the button for the elevator. Patrick turns to see David observing him with electric eyes.

“In case I forget later,” David says with a smile as the elevator dings its arrival, “I had a really good time tonight.”

Patrick beams, following David into the waiting carriage. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Oh no,” David promises as the doors slide shut. “Just the Canadian ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my research and Canada apparently doesn’t have Men’s Wearhouses. They also should have gone to Bergdorf Goodman for high end men's suiting rather than Bloomingdales, but I needed them to stay near Chinatown and the Financial District so here we are. I’ve also fudged some of the details with the business aspects of this story. I could get into the weeds about private equity, investment banking, IPOs, 10ks, and DCF cash flows, but that’s what not we’re here for so let’s all just agree to move along. I tried to be as accurate and realistic as possible but at the end of the day, this is fiction and we all just want to get to these boys kissing, amiright?


	2. the king of wishful thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Patrick attend Patrick's important business gala with smashing success. Their celebration leads them to something sticky and sweet.

SATURDAY, con't

[The Whitney Museum](https://www.turnerconstruction.com/experience/project/1F1B/whitney-museum-of-american-art) is piece of modern art itself, Patrick thinks, staring up at the sand and stone building with its hard edges and mismatched bits. It looks like a petulant architect stacked all his favorite shapes into a city block and declared it a building. Some sections are nothing but windows, another side has small backslashes of glass tilted toward a cement tower of staircases, while still other parts have no discernible windows or right angles at all. Patrick’s already teetering on an uneven axis after a few hours with David; the building feels like it simply reached deep into his insides and reconstructed them here with steel and glass and cement.

The summer sun has already slipped behind the buildings, drenching the sky in gold, and the museum reflects back sun and sea from its seat along the Hudson River. It’s spectacular and stark, and Patrick wants to storm the barricades, wants to run away, wants to vomit on his newly shined shoes. And then David is putting one tentative hand into the canyon of his back, and Patrick feels his spine stiffen with something like courage.

“Here we are.” David drops his arm and gives Patrick’s hand an encouraging squeeze. He moves to let go, but Patrick tightens his grasp, squeezes harder, makes David’s hand stay in his, palm-to-palm, heartbeats throbbing together in the tender pads by their thumbs.

Patrick’s always had large hands, catcher’s hands. Rachel would often complain that her hands hurt after threading her fingers through his and now Patrick senses that his hands were never meant for the bird-like bones of women, but for something else entirely. After just a few hours with David, he’s settling into the realization that he’s been wrong about so much in his life. He thinks he should be panicking, but all he feels is calm, relieved, a weight lifted.

He finally lets go of David’s hand and David knocks his shoulder against Patrick’s, nudging him toward the doors. “Let’s go win this OPI.”

Patrick laughs softly, stops. “Wait. Isn’t that a nail polish?”

David merely smirks and strides towards the entrance of the museum and Patrick can’t help but follow.

The Whitney, David informs Patrick sotto voce, focuses on 20th century and contemporary American art, showcasing the work of living artists and up and coming talent who would otherwise be ignored or overlooked by traditional museums. David comes to a stop in front of [a portrait of a woman](https://whitney.org/collection/works/6564) laying on a chaise lounge, blue jacket, teal pants tapered at her ankles, arms artfully arranged, black hair short; it looks as if David’s come to pay homage to his patron saint.

“Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney,” David nods at the woman in the portrait like she’s an old friend, “She was a sculptor in the early 20th century and she forced people to accept her. When the Met turned down her collection of contemporary art, she just decided to build her own museum. And here we now stand.”

David is still staring at Gertrude’s face, but Patrick can’t peel his eyes off David.

“Vanderbilt.” Patrick finally says, hating to break David’s reverie. “Came from a lot of money then, didn’t she?”

David finally looks at Patrick, eyes unexpectedly bruised. “Yes, but you can still be a failure even if you’re rich. But not her. She did it right.” A smile tugs at David’s lips. “I could tell you some stories about the Vanderbilts that would make you blush. You know, Anderson Cooper is a Vanderbilt.” He winks knowingly and walks away. Patrick feels a tug of something he thinks is dangerously close to jealousy.

Apparently, David’s art history lesson isn’t over. He continues to tell Patrick about the Ashcan School and the abstract expressionists and the artists now on display in the museum that bears the Whitney name—Weber, Hopper, O’Keefe, Kline, de Kooning, Rauschenberg, Rothko, Warhol. Patrick only recognizes one or two names in David’s list, but he’s still spellbound by the quiet intensity now humming through David’s body, radiating through his words. He’d listen to him read the phone book, he thinks, in that low, soft voice that dances and trills and seduces all in one sentence.

Maybe that’s the secret, Patrick thinks, that David is a failed artist, like so many starving artists before him, forced into desperate measures by his dedication to his craft. It would explain why he knows so much about art and why he seemed both thrilled and terrified to come here tonight. They move upwards through cascading staircases illuminated by exposed light bulbs floating in the space between the floors and push into a new wing of the museum. David seems to instinctively know where he’s headed; Patrick is completely lost. He’s normally the one in charge, in control, and it’s a new feeling for him. He’s having a lot of those today, it seems.

“I’ve never really understood modern art,” Patrick now admits, feeling like he needs to confess his deficiencies, wanting to hear David keep talking. “I mean, some of it looks like a kindergartner did it.”

David cocks his head like he’s heard this line before. “I see how you could be confused into thinking that,” David offers Patrick a small smile as if to let him know he’s not a massive idiot. Patrick still kind of feels like one though. “Anyone can paint a landscape or a still life or a portrait. It’s another thing entirely to paint your emotions, to visualize love, loneliness, hope, or fear. If they do it right, art should make you feel something right here.” And David pokes Patrick right in the chest, above his rapidly beating heart.

Patrick can’t deny that he feels something, surrounded by works of art beyond his grasp to understand, even more so by the man standing in front of him. He thinks, not for the first time, that David is breathtaking, that he belongs here among the outrageous and rare, deserves to be admired, revered. More than anything, he thinks David deserves to be seen. Patrick wants to discover every color, every line, every curve of David, pour his emotions into his crevices, and admire him up close, all at once, all over. He’d paint his heart across a canvas and it would look like smirks and eyebrows and that one dimple right there in his left cheek, where’d Patrick would like to put his lips and fall into for a minute, a moment, maybe forever.

Somehow they’ve arrived at their destination on the top floor and Patrick can see the special exhibition space is crawling with the rich, dressed to the nines, drinks in hand, servers fanning out from the museum café to press hors d’oeuvres into waiting hands. Beyond the café, the museum gives way to an outdoor observation deck which provides stunning views of both the city, the Hudson, and New Jersey now sparkling with electricity. Patrick wants to drag David out into the open air to hear the noises he’ll make as the wind blows through his pompadour or else take shelter in a shadowed corner to continue his art education.

But David is suddenly preoccupied now, scanning the crowds, looking for familiar faces, reading the room. Patrick tries not to be annoyed or too needy. He’s already relied on David’s help far more than he anticipated. He pulls David along into the various rooms of the exhibit. He pauses in front of artwork after artwork but registers nothing but flashes of color and vague geometric shapes. They nibble on the hors d’oeuvres offered to them, but David was right—they look beautiful but taste like cardboard. He’s glad he managed to get at least one of those dumplings into his mouth.

The crowd thins out just enough that Patrick can spot Mr. Raine across the room, standing next to what, to Patrick, appears to be an [abstract three-legged dog made of black metal](https://i2.wp.com/www.artagencypartners.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Calder-arches.jpg?resize=640%2C821&ssl=1). His stomach is in knots but not because of what he needs to do to close this deal; he feels emboldened, invincible with David by his side. It’s what he’d like to do with David afterwards that has his knees buckling, his fingers tingling.

“Well, Patrick, you’ve arrived at last.” Patrick turns at the sound of a familiar voice. Todd dressed in his slightly rumpled everyday suit, arm casually slung around a beautiful petite brunette that is most definitely not his wife. “Not bad, Brewer. You clean up nice.”

David turns around, nesting himself into Patrick’s side and Todd’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. “And who’s your _friend_, Pat?”

David appraises Todd from head to toe and sneers, “Wouldn’t you like to know. Hi, Shelly.” David nods at the brunette who merely flutters her lashes and giggles.

Patrick glances just briefly at David who’s returned to searching the room, and then turns back to Todd. “Have you talked with Mr. Raine yet?”

Todd clenches his teeth and shakes his head. “Not even close. Surrounded by a bunch of groveling sycophants. Apparently, Mr. Raine invited all the banks vying for this deal.”

“Maybe we should—”

But Patrick is interrupted when David grabs his arm, throwing a careless “best wishes to you” over his shoulder at Todd as he strongarms Patrick in the direction of the metal dog.

“David!” Patrick gasps; his grip is vice-like. “Todd is a total asshole, but I do actually need him in order to close this deal.”

“No, you don’t,” David huffs, picking up speed. “You have me.” David finally looks at Patrick and produces the kind of grin that leaves Patrick a little bit winded, not quite a full punch, but a definite, swift jab.

David plants himself underneath a [hanging thing](https://whitney.org/WatchAndListen/1145)—_looks like a baby mobile_, Patrick thinks in bewilderment—and begins talking in that melodious voice of his.

“The performative nature of Calder’s work is lost if you don’t experience his oeuvre in person. The constellation of movement and the unpredictable percussive sounds are all a part of Calder’s art. The kinetic energy, the choreographed idiosyncrasies are rendered to evoke a visceral response in the viewer, don’t you think?”

David swats Patrick who’s staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Smile and nod,” David hisses and suddenly Edward Raine is approaching them, having overheard their conversation.

“Patrick,” Edward says, extending his hand. “Glad you made it. Who’s your friend?” He turns to looks at David fully now and squints. “You look… familiar. Have we met before?”

David offers his hand; his eyes are sparkling with an expression Patrick simply can’t read. “I get that a lot. Just have one of those faces, I guess. My name’s David, sir. I’m an old friend of Patrick’s from our college days.”

Mr. Raine grunts. “Are you an artist, David? You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Unlike every other fool in this place. These bunch of brownnosers probably think Manet and Monet are the same.”

David eyes flick briefly to Patrick and gives an appropriately amused fake laugh. “Not an artist, sir, merely an appreciator of the arts,” David concedes and Patrick’s ears perk up, hoping he’ll learn some hidden truths about David, desperate for anything true and real. “I actually used to run a gallery in Chelsea.”

“Really? Ever exhibit anyone worthy of the Whitney’s notice?” Mr. Raine asks, but doesn’t expect an answer that will surprise him. But David says a name and Edward Raine’s face transforms and turns greedy.

“Really? You got Janet Kemfluugen to do a piece? At your gallery? She hasn’t done anything in years.”

“It was a one-day performance,” David acknowledges, but he looks victorious and pleased. “She wore a fawn mask, stripped naked, and breastfed members of the audience. A devastating commentary on income inequality, don’t you think?” David is triumphant. Patrick can only feel perplexed. That sounds….gross. So gross. How exactly is that art again?

“Brilliant. How’d you lure her out of Brooklyn?” Mr. Raine is riveted by David, and Patrick doesn’t blame him at all.

“Oh, I’m very persuasive,” David says. Patrick bets he is. Him standing here in a $3,000 Prada suit is proof enough of that. He wonders what else David could persuade him to do.

“You know, Janie and I still exchange Christmas cards,” David says nonchalantly. “I could reach out to her, if you’d be interested in having her perform here.”

Mr. Raine grins. “Oh, yes. We would like that very much.”

“Of course,” David shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just make the day of one of the richest men in New York City, the one Patrick is desperately trying to impress. Where did David even come from? Is he a gift from the business gods?

Mr. Raine leans toward David, “You know my son is a photographer, very talented. He’s starting to make quite a name for himself. You may have heard of him. Sebastien Raine?”

“Oh?” David responds with forced indifference, “Is he here tonight?”

Patrick eyebrows knit together, but he tries to quickly smooth his face, hide his confusion. Something in the air has shifted. There’s a chess game being played here, but Patrick doesn’t recognize the pieces. But he knows that David is up to something here. He knows he doesn’t like it, whatever it is.

“No,” Edward chuckles, but without feeling. “Doesn’t care for the family business. Wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit either.”

“Tragic” is all David says.

“But he’s got a big opening at The 303 Gallery this Saturday. He’s been working non-stop on it. You should come. Someone who appreciates Janet Kempfluugen would definitely appreciate Sebastien’s eye.”

“Mmm,” David hums noncommittally.

“It’s an exclusive guest list. But I could have you added. Patrick too, of course.”

David sees Patrick’s gobsmacked expression, smiles, and says, “We’d be delighted. I’m always interested in the work of emerging artists.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Raine claps his hands together. He looks over their heads at the next person he wants to talk to; his conversation with David and Patrick is obviously done. He starts to turn, but then stops to give Patrick another one of his appraising looks. “Patrick, call my assistant tomorrow and set up another meeting. Let’s talk valuation. I’m off to London tomorrow and won’t be back until Monday after the holiday. So Tuesday morning then?”

Mr. Raine doesn’t wait for Patrick’s response before he strides off. Patrick is absolutely speechless.

“Ho…how?” he finally stammers, looking wildly at David. “How did you do that?”

David shrugs and tilts his head. “It’s a gift.”

“That was amazing.” Patrick breathes. “You’re amazing.”

David’s eyes light up, a beautiful smile exploding across his face. “I’d say I just crushed this iHOP, wouldn’t you?”

Patrick laughs with his whole body, elation and lust bubbling up in equal measure. “You’re ridiculous.” But then he’s grabbing David’s hand and dragging him out the gallery and down the stairs.

“Where are we going?” David asks, trying to keep up. “We didn’t even get to see the permanent collection yet.”

“We need to celebrate. And now I want some pancakes.”

David tries to hide his burgeoning grin. “I could eat.”

They burst out into the open air, the museum ablaze with lights behind them. Patrick marches out into the street to hail a taxi like he’s been doing this all his life. One screeches to a halt beside them and Patrick nimbly climbs in, David eagerly behind him.

By a stroke of luck, the only iHOP in Lower Manhattan is a mile and a half away from the Whitney on 14th Street and they’re sliding into a sticky booth less than 15 minutes later. Patrick doesn’t even care about the status of his outrageously expensive pants or the syrup he is likely sitting in right now. He feels light-headed, dizzy, half-drunk. He and David can’t help giggling, dazzled that the night was such a success. They order more food than they can possibly eat.

David kicks Patrick’s foot with his own. “Patrick.”

Patrick kicks back. “David.”

“How did you get into investment banking? You seem too….nice for it.”

Patrick blushes and then blushes more when he realizes he can’t stop it, doesn’t want to stop. “No. I…uh…actually grew up in a small town in Canada called Elm Tree. It’s a few hours outside of Toronto. My parents are real hard working, salt-of-the-earth type people. I’m an only child and I was…am really close to them. I always wanted to make them proud, you know?”

David doesn’t know, but he nods along like he does. Like he understands how a son could love his parents so much he’d do anything to make them proud. Like he knows what it’s like to have parents who introduce you to their acquaintances with a “this is our son” as if their hearts could burst.

Patrick continues. “I got it into my head that the best way to do that was to make a lot of money. And I was told the best way to make a lot of money was to get into investment finance. I was a business major, but I’d always been more interested in being an entrepreneur, building my own business, that sort of thing. But I did an internship with an investment bank and they made me an offer after college so I accepted. It was only going to be for a few years until I was ready to do my own thing, but now it’s been 10 years.”

David moves his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Patrick looks away, threads his hands, and clears his throat.

“The thing is, I hardly get to see my parents anymore, I work so much. There never seems to be a good time to take a break. I don’t know that they’re all that proud of what I’ve become.”

“They’re proud of you, Patrick.” David says immediately, says it like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “You’re smart and kind. Nice. You’re a nice person. What parent wouldn’t be proud of that?”

Patrick has always thought nice is just a pleasant way to say boring, inoffensive, forgettable. But on David’s lips, it sounds like the best compliment he’s ever received, like a nice person is a mythical creature that only exists in legends, and David is honored to be in his presence. Patrick feels his whole body flush with pleasure.

“Thank you, David.” His voice is sincere, but David can’t meet his eyes.

They’re saved when their waitress brings the food, dropping a massive mound of chocolate chip pancakes in front of David, which he dives into with unrestrained glee. He reaches across the table to shamelessly steal a strip of Patrick’s bacon and there’s no other word for it, but Patrick is charmed. It’s so easy being with David, like he can just be himself. They eat in silence for a few minutes and that feels easy too.

“How did you know?” Patrick suddenly asks, not able to contain his curiosity any longer. “How did you know that would work on Mr. Raine?”

“I told you I’m familiar with the Raine family.” David opens that gorgeously wide mouth and fills it with more pancakes. A little syrup dribbles out the corner of his mouth and Patrick has to physically restrain himself from wiping it off his chin and licking it. “Also, I may have Googled him while you were trying on suits.”

“You Googled him?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And I saw that he’s on the Executive Board at the Whitney. And I knew he’d be salivating to get a chance to bring Janet Kempfluugen there.”

“Did you Google all that stuff about art too?”

“No. That part is true.” David clears his throat. Glances away. “I did use to run an art gallery. Before. I did work with Janet Kempfluugen. She’s brilliant, but notoriously reclusive.”

Patrick sits in stunned silence for a beat. “Why, David, did you just break one of your own rules?”

“OK, Mr. Brewer, you don’t have to gloat about it.” He steals another piece of bacon from Patrick’s plate. Patrick briefly considers ordering more just so David can steal that from him too.

“And his son. Do you know this Sebastien Raine?”

“OK. We’re done now,” David’s pillowy lips disappear into a thin line. “No more personal questions.”

“OK. But just one more thing I need to know,” Patrick says with a devilish grin. “Did you Google me too?” He’s deeply curious to know how much time and effort David has invested in him already, wants to know if David’s is as curious about him as he is of David.

David merely blushes and funnels more pancake into his mouth. But it’s his last bite so he has nowhere else to hide now.

Patrick gently presses his foot on top of David’s. “Hey, David?”

David looks at him, right in his eyes, his eyes so dark Patrick can’t tell the difference between the iris and the pupil. “Yes, Patrick.”

“Thank you for tonight.” David nods. Patrick smiles fondly. David seems to be allergic to sentiment, but it’s good for him. Probably doesn’t get a lot of kind words thrown his way, but Patrick will wear him down. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re a good person too.”

David arches an eyebrow at Patrick. “It’s just that I called you nice.”

“You’re a good person.” Patrick repeats.

“That’s not nice.”

But it is nice. It’s the nicest thing both of them have felt in years.

***

They ride back to the hotel in silence after Patrick pays their bill at iHOP. David is uncharacteristically quiet, riding on a sea of hidden thoughts. Patrick doesn’t want to disturb him. He rests his chin on his hand and stares out the taxi window, taking in the lights and sounds and sights of the city that never sleeps. Patrick has never cared much for New York the few times he’s been here on business. It’s too brash, too loud, too bright, too full of itself. But now it’s the city that has given him David, so he’s starting to think he could change his mind.

***

David follows Patrick up to his hotel room to collect his bag and they stand there awkwardly, neither sure what the next step should be. Patrick pre-paid online when he booked his “professional escort experience” so there’s no messy exchange of payment that needs to be done. He’s glad for that now. It would mar the illusion he’s built for himself that David is there for him because he wants to be, because he finds Patrick cute or attractive.

Patrick loosens his tie and rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes from the scrutiny of David’s stare. But he also seems reluctant to go, so Patrick makes a quick decision, anything to keep David here.

“You want a drink?” Patrick opens the fridge and grabs the closest bottles he can reach from the minibar, not even bothering to look at what it is.

“Sure,” David shrugs and moves to sit at the small table in the room, dropping his black leather bag beside him, accepting the vodka Patrick pushes into his hand. Patrick slips into the seat next to David, gulping in a shaky breath which he tries to mask with a quick sip of his beer.

“So…uh,” Patrick begins and then stops. God, he’s so embarrassed. How does one even have this conversation? “Can we talk about Saturday?”

David’s head snaps up. “What about Saturday?”

“Are you…I mean, will you go to this gallery thing with me? I don’t think I can do this without you.”

“Oh.”

“Will you come? With me? I think it would go a long way in helping me secure this deal.”

David hesitates, but seems to be thinking it over. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Years of investment banking have honed Patrick’s skills in making quick decisions based on incomplete evidence. Patrick has seen enough billion dollar deals signed in less than 24 hours fueled by coffee, drugs (never his own), and vacuous PowerPoint slide decks to know a good deal when he sees one. So Patrick takes quick stock of the situation. One, he needs David to go to this gallery opening with him on Saturday if he’s going to have any hope of not making a fool of himself. Two, he’s got some time to kill between now and his meeting with Mr. Raine on Tuesday, practically a week away. Three, he’s irrevocably, undeniably attracted to David. And four, he desperately wants to kiss him.

“What would you say if I asked you to stay here…with me…for the week?”

“Why? Why would you want that?”

“You’ve been very good for business so far.”

“That it? I’m just your lucky charm?

“No, David. That’s not just it.”

“Then why?”

“I want you to.” Patrick wants to leave out the “to” and just tell David that he wants him, because that’s the real truth of it. He’ll figure out the rest later.

“You do?”

“Very much so. And it looks like I might just have a little unexpected time on my hands until my meeting with Mr. Raine on Tuesday. And I seem to recall someone told me this city can be pretty magical if you know where to look.”

“Who would say that? This place is a dump.”

“You could show me.”

David stands up abruptly, the chair stuttering on the carpet beneath it. “Patrick, I—"

David casts his eyes down, blinks as if he’s gotten something caught there that he doesn’t want Patrick to see. When he finally looks back up at Patrick, he looks torn apart, half-wrecked.

“It’s just that…uh…I can’t. I shouldn’t. Stay, I mean. I want to. God, I actually want to. But it’s complicated and I’ve got rent to pay….” David trails off.

Patrick now stands up, matches David eye-to-eye. “How much?”

“How much is my rent?”

“No. How much for you to stay the week.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I never joke about money.”

“$6,000.” David spits out quickly, as if he can’t believe he’s really considering this.

“$5,000,” Patrick counters.

David hesitates, but Patrick knows just how to close this deal.

“And you can order all the room service you want.”

David clenches his jaw, looks right to left. “Fine.”

“I should have led with the room service, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes,” David nods, “That’s correct.”

“Thank you, David.” Patrick smiles at David, ebullient. He’s never been so reckless with his money in all his life and he feels deliriously ecstatic about it.

“You know, I would have stayed for less.” David says quietly, with that tender little half smile Patrick’s come to think as belonging just to him.

Patrick moves toward David without even thinking, wraps his arms around him, tilts his head up, thrilled all anew that David is taller, and glances hungrily at David’s lips. “I would have paid more.”

There’s a roaring in Patrick’s ears as he inches in closer to David’s mouth, now stretched into a wobbly smile and Patrick thinks for just a second that David wants this just as much as he does when there’s a hand, gentle but firm, holding him at bay.

“No, Patrick. Rule number four. No kissing on the mouth. Company policy.” David sounds rueful, sounds sorry. Patrick has never met a rule he didn’t want to follow, never even colored outside the lines as a kid, but he’s learned now that there are rules that need to be broken so that other things can be fixed, can be made right.

“David?”

“Yes, Patrick?” His name on David’s breath is a tinged with hope.

“That’s the stupidest fucking rule I’ve ever heard of.”

And then he’s kissing David, kissing him right on the lips. There are stars behind his eyelids, fireworks in his fingertips. And David is kissing him back, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck to pull him close. There’s no tongue or teeth, just the soft press of willing lips and the wild thought that this may be the single best kiss of his life.

Something inside Patrick slides unexpectedly into place and he realizes that the pieces he was putting together were not David’s at all, but his own. He’s never felt more right in all his life, standing right here, kissing David full on the mouth, feeling all the things you’re supposed to feel, like it’s his very first time.

***

The kiss deepens and David’s hands are all over him now, practiced and perfect, all soft caresses and kneading want. Patrick feels half blind with desire, feels David slowly moving them into the direction of the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress and Patrick pulls away, as if he’s only just returned to his body, remembers where he is and who he’s with.

“I feel it’s only fair to warn you that this is my first time.” Patrick whispers, suddenly feeling very shy, when two minutes ago he felt bold and invincible.

“With an escort,” David pants, lips to his throat, eager to resume, “Yes, you told me.”

“No.” Patrick flushes. “I mean, yes, that too. My first time with a man.”

Now David stills, a nearly imperceptible “oh” escaping his lips as he pulls away. He’s searching Patrick’s face, taking in all the disparate parts of it, like a treasure seeker on a hunt who can’t decipher the hieroglyphics on his map.

“And you need me to stop?”

“God, no,” Patrick declares. “Also, pretty sure I’m the one who kissed you.”

“You have a point,” David concedes, a smile creeping onto his unchecked face. “You want to go slow then?”

Patrick pauses, considering. “Not exactly, no. I just…I just might need a little guidance is all.”

“I can do that,” David breathes, soft and soothing, “As long as you’re sure.”

“I want this,” Patrick says, all burning fire and intensity. “I want you.”

“You can have me then.” David moves to take in more of Patrick’s lips as they fall into the bed together.

“I’m going to spend some time kissing you,” David says after a moment, like a doctor explaining a complex procedure on an anxious patient. “And then I’m going to take off your clothes. Slowly.”

“Yes, please.” Patrick begs, but politely, like his mother taught him.

“But we’re not going to throw our clothes in a heap on the floor, are we, Patrick?”

“Yes, David.” Patrick intones like he’s reciting his catechism.

“We respect our clothes. You’re wearing Prada, after all.”

“We could respect our clothes right now,” Patrick whispers, moving his hands underneath David’s jacket to respectfully yank it off.

“Kisses,” David repeats. “Then clothes.”

“And then what, David?”

“And then I make you come.”

Patrick shudders against David, already halfway there. “How?”

David clamps his teeth down on the velvety pad of Patrick’s ear, gives a little tug and he starts to untangle the knot of Patrick’s tie that he’d made himself earlier that night, nearly a lifetime ago. “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he whispers in Patrick’s ear.

And David begins the search in earnest now, splaying Patrick wide on the bed to drop kisses in the tender parts of his body that he slowly reveals as he removes each article of clothing from Patrick and then himself—tie, jacket, shirt, belt, pants—gingerly laying each item of clothing out on the nearby desk so that they don’t wrinkle or stain. He’s patient and unhurried, letting Patrick experience each new sensation, each new reaction his body gives as David unmoors him from his bearings.

They’re down to their underwear now—Patrick in just basic cotton boxer briefs and David in something black and silky—as David moves lower, starts to circle the treasure that he seeks. He teases his nipples, swirls his tongue in his belly button—which Patrick finds both embarrassing and erotic—before David slowly, slowly smooths his hands into the waistband of Patrick’s underwear and unearths the rest.

And then David takes all of Patrick into his mouth and finds the X that marks the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really debated about the sequence of events that would happen in this relationship, how quickly they’d move, whether they’d have sex first (like they do in _Pretty Woman_) so that when they finally kiss on the lips you know that It Means Something. Ultimately, I decided that Patrick and David needed to kiss first because their first kiss is so iconic and Patrick would need that first step since this is still the first time he’s been with a man. But this Patrick has also been an investment banker for 10 years which means that he’s a slightly more aggressive, less patient version of himself and would be ready to move forward into sex much quicker than perhaps canon Patrick. I generally don’t like stories that have the characters meeting and falling in love right away—I love a slow burn—but these boys only have a week so they simply don’t have any time to waste. But it was still important for me to establish a deeper relationship based on more than just sex and I hope I will have achieved that when all is said and done.


	3. lay a whisper on my pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David takes Patrick on a field trip to explore New York City and teaches him how best to appreciate rom-coms.

THURSDAY

Patrick is staring. He knows it’s terribly rude, knows he should look away or pretend to sleep or something, but he can’t help himself. There’s a man in his bed—a slightly rumpled, painstakingly gorgeous, distractingly naked man in his bed—and he just wants to stare. It’s like he woke up in the middle of the night to discover the Colossus of Rhodes in his bed; a lost wonder of the ancient world now found, and he wants to publish it from the rooftops, he wants to guard it so it can never been destroyed again. He feels flames flicking up his insides, bruising along his ribcage, flaring up into his clavicles, and he thinks maybe he’s the Library of Alexandria before it combusted into fire and ash.

Does he feel this way because it’s new or because it’s right? he wonders. So Patrick stares and takes stock.

He loved every second that David’s lips and mouth and teeth and tongue had spent on his body last night, loved it in a way he had never felt with any women before. He loved the way their legs were still tangled together right now and the feel of David’s soft leg hairs tickling against Patrick’s where their limbs connected at ankles, calves, and knees. He loved the hard line of David’s cock pressing against his thigh, those large but gentle hands, his day-old stubble and wild eyebrows, the wide expanse of his flat chest, and the soft, slightly ticklish spot under David’s chin next to his Adam’s apple that Patrick had nuzzled into last night while he shed all the parts of his past.

Basically, he loves everything about David that means he is a man. It seems so very obvious to him now. Why had he never realized this undeniable, fundamental aspect of himself? He's attracted to men. And he’s already crazy about this particular man.

_So this is it_, Patrick concludes calmly and rationally, the only way he knows how. And he thinks he should be scared or having a panic attack right now, but instead he strokes the gentle curve of David’s shoulder, his bicep, his hip, and thinks, _finally, I know who I’m meant to be._

Patrick settles back into his pillow and closes his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, and is swallowed up into the best night of sleep he’s ever had in a bed that is not his own, surrounded by arms that are not a woman’s in the city that never sleeps, with one terrifying and comforting thought ricocheting in his head:

_I’m meant to be his._

***

They wake at the same time in the morning, giving sheepish, sleepy smiles to one another as the sun wedges its way through half-closed curtains. Patrick expects it to be awkward and uncomfortable, but David emits a breathy “hey” with that crooked smile and it’s suddenly so simple like they’ve been waking up this way together forever. “Hey,” Patrick returns, and suddenly they’re kissing and Patrick doesn’t know if he was the one who moved first or if it was David.

These kisses are less frenzied than last night’s. They’re slow and languorous, timid tongues slipping through cracks in their lips to tease and taste one another. Their hands are respectful, careful, neither daring to let them wander and break the sweetness of the moment.

David pulls away first, soft eyes crinkling at the corners. “You said last night I was good for business, but I think maybe you are gonna be bad for my business.”

Patrick feels himself flush, pleased. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

So Patrick kisses David right on that dimple in his left cheek just like he wanted to all last night. “Remember how I told you I was really good at my job?” Patrick asks, feeling a mixture of confidence and terror.

“Mm,” David nods.

“Did I tell you why?”

“No.”

“It’s because I’m a very fast learner. You only have to show me how to do something once before I get the hang of it.”

“Is that so?”

“Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“OK. Sure.” David looks like it would take a lot to impress him and Patrick loves a challenge.

And so Patrick slides down David’s body while conjuring gooseflesh and blushes under his touch. He takes David into his mouth with no hesitation, matches David’s tricks stroke for stroke, and then adds to them, improves them until David is desperate and gasping for breath and calling out Patrick’s name in record time. And then Patrick is surging upwards to meet David’s lips in a sticky, wet kiss.

It’s not a perfect blow job, but Patrick shows a lot of promise. David is suitably impressed.

***

They shower—separately, though Patrick had tried to weasel his way in with David, who told him in no uncertain terms that his bathing routine “did not include partners at this juncture”—and eat their room service breakfast in fluffy robes like it’s no big deal, like it’s not the best morning either has had in years.

Patrick slides over his uneaten bacon (he knows now to order extra), and says, “I do have some work I need to take care of this morning. It hopefully won’t take long.”

David nods, “I should go too.” Panic creeps into Patrick’s eyes until David quickly adds, “If I’m going to stay the week, I should go get some more of my clothes. Skincare products. The essentials.”

Patrick tries to hide his smile behind his hand but fails miserably. “I’ll give you the extra key card to my room.” He digs it out of the papers they gave him when he first checked in, silently praising the clairvoyant concierge who slipped it in “just in case.”

“Can we meet back here? Noon?”

David nods, clamping down on his bottom lip to stop his grin from spreading.

“And then I want you to take me to your favorite place in New York, the one place you’d go if you only had one more day left in New York City.”

David gives him a beatific smile. “I know just the place.”

And Patrick nods confidently like he already loves the place that David loves best.

***

It takes Patrick all morning to convince his bosses that it makes good sense for him to just stay in New York so he can have easier access to both Raine Corp’s financials and their headquarters in preparation for his big meeting on Tuesday. No one is more surprised than Patrick that they actually sign off on it. Todd is livid, especially since he’s told to board the next flight back to Toronto. He leaves Patrick with a sneer and a promise that he’ll be checking up on him frequently until he comes back for the Tuesday meeting.

In the end, it’s closer to one o’clock by the time Patrick’s sliding his key card into the pad at his hotel room door. He’s half convinced he’ll open up the door to an empty room and he braces himself for the inevitable disappointment. But David’s there, a tall dark streak against the white sheets of the bed, a soft smile on his face as he watches _Downton Abbey_ on the TV. Patrick had almost forgotten how beautiful David was in the few hours they’d been apart. His pulse quickens, feeling a mixture of elation and relief.

“Sorry I’m late.”

David looks up from the TV and checks the time on his phone. “You’re actually earlier than I thought. I figured you wouldn’t show up until 2 o’clock.”

Patrick looks chastened. “I did my best.”

“I know. I’ve spent enough time on Wall Street to know how time works for you guys.” But he says it with a slight smile so Patrick knows he’s not upset. His heart beats in double time.

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah. You?”

“All good,” Patrick smiles. “Should we get going?”

David nods as he shuts off the TV and slides off the foot of the bed and pulls on his high-top shoes, bending over enough for Patrick to appreciate the view. He notices that David’s black sweater is perfectly fitted to his chest and shoulders, a soaring eagle draping his wings across his back and around his shoulder blades.

“It’s probably best to take the subway,” David says as he laces up his shoes. “It’s going to take a little while to get there.”

“I don’t mind,” Patrick says. And he really doesn’t, not if it means more time in David’s orbit.

David guides Patrick to the Chambers Street Station and smoothly glides into the A train as soon as it arrives. The train is only half full and David surveys the carriage and its occupants before selecting a seat in the middle, pulling Patrick down with him.

“I actually love this part.” David admits shyly.

“What? The subway?”

“Ew. No,” David makes a disgruntled face. “People watching. The train is one of the best places to people watch.”

“My dad and I used to go bird watching together.”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“I’m just trying to find things in common with you, David. You know, like friends do.”

“Oh, are we just friends again now?”

“Sure,” Patrick says with a smirk. “Friends who like to give each other blow jobs.”

Now it’s David’s turn to blush.

“Yeah,” Patrick continues, loving the way David’s face is doing that thing again, that thing that makes butterflies flutter all through his chest. “We’d go on these long hikes together and mark off all the birds we saw on the Audubon list.”

“The only hiking I do is when the escalator is broken at the train station,” David says.

“You might be surprised how much you like it,” Patrick replies, and he can just picture David in the mountain air, how much more breathtaking the view would be with him in it.

“Hard pass.” But David is struggling to wipe the smile off his face and it’s getting all twisty and cute and Patrick wants desperately to kiss him. But it’s probably too soon for kissing in public. Probably.

“So people watching,” Patrick repeats. “You like doing that?”

David knits his eyebrows together for a moment, considering the question. “We’re all just works of art, when you think about it,” David says succinctly, with a shrug. He probably doesn’t spend a lot of time with unimaginative business majors who don’t intrinsically appreciate people watching for its aesthetic value, Patrick guesses.

“And here I thought you hated people,” Patrick replies with a half smile.

“Oh, I definitely do.” David grins unapologetically. “But that doesn’t make humans any less fascinating to watch.”

Patrick laughs and settles back into the blue plastic seat, relaxing into its worn grooves and bracing his body against David’s as they sway with the movement of the train as it speeds and stops, speeds and stops. Patrick has lived in Toronto for ten years and still hasn’t discovered the trick of big city life. He’s never felt entirely comfortable with the crush of people and the frenetic pace of a life of constant movement, but it feels nice here with David. He doesn’t mind the cramped quarters or the people who step on his feet in their rush to claim an empty seat. The train fills up and empties and the motions of people on the move is rhythmic and hypnotic to Patrick in a way he’s never appreciated before.

The stations fly by in a blur: Canal Street, Spring Street, Penn Station, Port Authority. Every so often, David will nudge Patrick and indicate with the uptick of an eyebrow or the tilt of the chin to check out some new arrived rider. It doesn’t take long for them to develop a language entirely without words to communicate their appreciation or surprise or horror at the person on exhibit. They say very little but have whole conversations with their eyes and eyebrows and lips.

They’re three stops from the end of the line when David lays a hand on Patrick’s knee and says, “This is us” and stands up and moves to the sliding doors in one fluid motion. Patrick scrambles to his feet and barely makes it through before the doors are clacking their way shut again.

They emerge out a set of battered green doors and Patrick is nearly blinded by the beaming sun, so bright and unexpected in its mid-afternoon perch. They’d been underground for so long, Patrick nearly expected it to be dark outside too. He wills his eyes to readjust quicker and jogs to catch up with David, who has already moved along without him like a true New Yorker.

“Where are you taking me to, David?” Patrick asks. They’re walking through a wooded park, neatly landscaped to appear more wild than it really is. Patrick remembers learning that when he first left the small town he grew up in to go away to college in the city; that out in country, you have the freedom to grow wild, but in the city you have to prune yourself to fit into your allotted space.

“There it is,” David points up ahead.

They crest a slight hill and move around a small bend and then Patrick sees it through the trees. A [building of thick rough masonry and gothic arched windows](https://s3.amazonaws.com/fathom_media/2017/9/6/NYC-Best-Biking-Routes-The-Cloisters.jpg) and a large square tower with the Hudson River glittering in the background. It looks like a medieval castle right here in New York City.

“A castle?” Patrick asks, stunned. As if on cue, the clanging bells inside the tower mark the time with an ostentatious flourish. “A church?”

“Neither,” David says, smiling at the dumbfounded look at Patrick’s face. “The Cloisters. It’s an art museum.”

“Well, that is way more on brand for you.”

And David laughs, rich and throaty as he turns to the castle/church/museum entrance.

“Hey, David,” Patrick calls from behind him, smile already dancing on his teasing lips. “That was a very nice hike you just took me on.”

David shakes his head. “Wrong. That was a 10 minute stroll through a park.”

“Well, there was definitely an incline and trees and dirt and squirrels. I’d call that a hike.”

David looks horrified.

“See, buddy,” Patrick snickers. “Look how much we have in common already. We both love to hike.” And he pats David’s arm as he moves through the arched entryway.

***

The museum may be on brand for David, but not the contents. The Cloisters, Patrick discovers, are a conglomeration of five medieval churches from France taken apart brick-by-brick and shipped to New York City by John D. Rockefeller in the 1930s and reconstructed as one Frankenstein creation here at the highest point in NYC. Its rib vaults are filled with Medieval paintings, frescoes, sculptures, tapestries, and stained glass, the galleries connected by arched colonnades. The air is different here; the stone retains the scent of the old world, still and thick and pregnant with the past.

“I thought you were more of a contemporary art guy,” Patrick says as if that’s a distinction he truly knows how to make, his voice bouncing and echoing against the stone.

“Oh, I am,” David replies with a smile, steering Patrick through a doorway hung with thick wooden doors, “I come here for the ambiance and architecture, mainly.” And they emerge back into an [open atrium, brimming with wild greens and landscaped walkways](https://i2.wp.com/fifiandhop.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/cloisters-NYC-dsc_3873-1600x1083.jpg?fit=1440%2C975&ssl=1). It’s surprisingly peaceful here, lush and otherworldly. Patrick can see why David likes it here. The city falls away and you can think here.

“I used to travel a lot…before.” David says, quiet now, stroking the leaf of a small, but stately tree. “I miss it, some days more than others. I love that this city lets me travel the world without even leaving the island.”

To hear him talk, it sounds like there are two Davids that exist: the one standing in front of Patrick with that wistful, fond look and the one before. There is a fissure in the timeline of David’s mysterious past and Patrick wonders what the fault line is. Becoming an escort or something else? Something that came before to drive him into this life of paid companionship? It doesn’t change how he feels about David, Patrick realizes, but he’s curious all the same.

The museum isn’t very crowded, but Patrick takes an opportunity to do some people watching—or more specifically to do some David watching. He’s mentally started cataloging all of David’s ticks and nuances, facial expressions, body language. His fingers are practically itching to make a spreadsheet about it so he can start sub-dividing them into categories and ranking them on a scale of _“so cute”_ to _“holy fuck”_. He could watch David all day and never get bored, never get sick of looking at him.

He’s riveted by the way David uses his hands with wild abandon as he talks. He’s mesmerized by the quirks and twists of his mouth and all the ways he can manipulate it into shapes Patrick never knew lips could make—and that’s probably why David is such an excellent and thorough kisser. He must have developed extra muscles there that no other person has. God, he wants to feel those lips on his again right now.

It’s written into those glorious, uncontrollable eyebrows—Patrick is quickly become obsessed with David’s eyebrows and he’s wanted to reach up and touch them at least twenty times today. It’s in the way his nose scrunches in distaste or the dimples that carve lines into his cheeks. It’s in the soft but defined stubble always gracing his jawline or the practiced tilt of his head. It’s in the softness of his eyes, in the teasing twinkle Patrick can sometimes put there.

It’s the way David holds himself, like he knows everyone is looking—how could they not when he looks and dresses like that?—but how he also wants to blend in, disappear. How he knows he’s too much but wants you to not weary of him. How he just wants to be seen for nothing more than who he really is. Patrick wishes there was an illuminated manuscript of David’s life he could read through protected glass, a secret guide to all the ways David will astonish him.

They meander through the labyrinth gallery space, pausing longer to admire the famous [Unicorn Tapestries](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/467642), David looking soft and regal against the floral backdrop of the _millefleur_. A thousand flowers, David says with an ironic smile like he’s in on a secret that Patrick isn’t.

Their time winds down all too quickly before David and Patrick are being adeptly ushered out by stern-faced museum staff and Patrick is surprised to discover that he enjoyed The Cloisters far more than he expected. David, meanwhile, looks warm and glowy around the edges.

“Well, David,” Patrick says once they’re outside, voice scratchy from whispering and unused to speaking at normal volumes, “You may just make me an art lover yet. Another thing we have in common.”

“Does that mean we can remove ‘hiking’ from the list?”

“Nope.”

But they’re both smiling delightedly at each other as they trek their way back to the entrance of the 190th Street Station.

Patrick knows that when he thinks of this day at The Cloisters, he’ll remember David in that black sweater, the outline of wings wrapping around the broad curves of his shoulders, all backlit by the natural light cascading through the stained glass windows, colors dancing across the chiseled planes of his face, looking for all the world like a fallen angel. And Patrick will remember how much he wanted him then and forever, with or without his wings.

***

Patrick startles awake with a terrifying jolt and stares around at his surroundings, trying to reorient himself. He’s on a subway; he can feel the rumble of the train beneath his feet. Not home then; he hardly ever rides the subway in Toronto. He’s in New York. He’s wedged next to something solid but soft and he looks up to meet coffee colored eyes starting at him with a mixture of wonder and mirth. David.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep on you.” Patrick tries to stretch inconspicuously. His neck is kinked and sore from resting against David’s solid winged shoulder. They’re only a few stations away from their stop which means he’s been asleep for at least 30 minutes.

“It’s okay,” David says. “I didn’t mind.”

Patrick scrubs his hand over his face and it comes away a little damp. Oh god, no. “Please tell me I didn’t drool on you.”

“Maybe a little,” David is trying not to laugh, damn him. “I’ll send you the dry cleaning bill. This is Valentino, after all.”

Patrick tries to sit a little more upright, regain a little of his dignity. “I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“Well, I may have had something to do with that.” David at least has the decency to look a little abashed at that. Repentant David is definitely going in the _"holy fuck"_ category, Patrick decides.

“You won’t hear me complaining,” he manages to say.

“I did plan on taking us out to eat tonight,” David begins, “but maybe we should just get…”

“Room service,” they both say together. And then they both laugh. Patrick ducks his head. He has never felt so good with any other person. Does David feel this way too or is it always so fun and effortless with him? Maybe he makes everyone feel this way.

“And maybe a movie?”

“Sounds great,” Patrick agrees. It sounds damn near perfect really.

When they get back to the hotel, Patrick places their orders as David scrolls through their movie options on all the available streaming platforms. There’s a lot of choices and he does not take kindly to Patrick’s well-intentioned suggestions, waving his hands and shushing him when he advocates for a sports movie of all things.

Finally, David gasps and shouts, “I’ve got it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Patrick asks, finally climbing onto the bed with David. He assumes David won’t shoo him away now that a movie has been selected.

“Only the most classic of classic rom-coms,” David pronounces proudly. _When Harry Met Sally._

Patrick tilts his head. “I think I’ve seen that one. Which one is it again?”

David looks positively affronted. His mouth is hanging slightly open and his nose is crinkling up which Patrick finds so damn endearing he just wants to kiss David. “Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal. New York. ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’ Is this really not ringing any bells for you?”

Patrick shakes his head only because David adds a raised eyebrow to his open mouth and crinkled nose and he’s envisioning a new category for his imaginary David spreadsheet: _"faces David makes when I tease him"_. It may be his favorite category so far.

Patrick does remember watching this movie with Rachel once a long time ago. All he remembers is being disappointed by the thought that you could be friends with someone for 12 years without realizing they were your soulmate. But now he realizes that he did the reverse: he was Rachel’s boyfriend for 12 years and couldn’t admit that she wasn’t his.

The food arrives and they eat quickly. The movie’s set and David’s finger hovers over the remote control, but then he turns to Patrick.

“Patrick, I think it’s important for our continuing relationship that we establish one very important rule.”

“Oh, more rules,” Patrick teases. “Maybe I should start writing these down.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but this one actually matters.”

“Oh, so I _can_ wear my braided belts?”

“No. No braided belts and no talking during movies.”

Patrick widens his eyes, innocent. “What kind of monster would talk during a movie?”

David glares at Patrick and Patrick feels like molten lava is charging through his intestines. He might just spontaneously combust from the mixture of laughter and desire coursing through his body. David gives him one final menacing look before he presses play.

They lay side-by-side on the bed watching Harry and Sally stumble toward each other. It starts innocently enough; Patrick picks up David’s hand to examine it against his own, twirling the rings David wears in alternating configurations to feel their weight and thickness. David elevates one eyebrow in question, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

Harry and Sally were friends and then almost wrecked it with sex before they realized it was actually love. David and Patrick started this charade as “friends” but it quickly became not that, more than that. And yet, Patrick realizes with surprising certainty that he does think of David as a friend. It’s easy with him in a way he’s never managed with friends—male or female—before. There’s a looseness in their banter, a delight in orbiting each other. He’s never embarrassed in front of David; he never feels judged. Patrick wonders, though, if David feels the same or if he’s worried that he’s too high maintenance like Sally Albright. Or too dark and twisty like Harry Burns. It’s only been a few days, but Patrick can’t imagine reaching a limit for David, suspects his tolerance for David’s too muchness is bottomless.

Patrick sometimes—okay, almost always—forgets that he is technically paying David for the pleasure of his company, sexual and otherwise. And yet, there’s a definite undercurrent of something real here, something not extracted through mercenary means. Friends, lovers, maybe more. Maybe everything. Patrick is ready to latch onto the hope that he’ll get much more than a week with David. He’s already devastated by the thought of letting him go.

By the time Patrick starts playing footsie with David, it’s because he does want to annoy David into talking to him. And also because he just wants him that badly. His need for David is a constant, all-consuming thing he’s never experienced before. He feels like some teenaged boy riled up on hormones. Patrick never even felt this way when he was going through puberty, but he also didn’t realize how attracted he is to men then and he’s got some lost time to make up for, he justifies. And he’s particularly attracted to this specific man. This specific man who is in his bed. This specific man who is in his bed who just wants to watch a movie. In silence.

David finally breaks when Patrick slides a coy hand up David’s sweater and plants his mouth into the spot behind David’s ear and starts to suck.

“Ok,” David finally bursts out, “that is most definitely not allowed!”

“You never said anything about what else I couldn’t do with my mouth,” Patrick replies, toffee eyes widened for effect.

“I think it was implied.”

“I could stop.” Patrick makes like he’s going to pull away but David holds him in place.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“But David, when you realize you want to fuck somebody, you want to start fucking them as soon as possible.”

“That’s not how that line goes.”

“I know.”

“So you admit that you’ve seen this movie before?”

“Yes.”

“So we won’t be stunting your rom-com education by focusing on….other activities?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.”

“Please do,” Patrick says looking up at David through hooded lashes.

“You’re either very impatient or very full of yourself,” David huffs. But Patrick knows David is going to cave.

“Can’t I be both?”

David does that twisty mouth thing, where his lips nearly slide right off his face and his brow furrows, and it’s just one in a long list of things that David does that makes Patrick feel wild and reckless and he feels a bone deep satisfaction when David finally relents and pulls Patrick closer.

“You win,” David purrs and lowers his lips to Patrick’s. Patrick feels a perverse sense of vindication that David doesn’t even pause the movie while they strip each other bare and stroke and lick each other into electrifying orgasms. David gives an Oscar caliber performance that would make even Meg Ryan proud. But Patrick’s pretty sure there was nothing fake about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Patrick’s "sexual awakening" (if we want to call it that): I don’t want to imply that having an Adam’s apple or a five o’clock shadow or hair on your legs makes you a man or is the only way to be a man. But I did want Patrick to recognize that all the masculine features of David—in comparison to the women he’d been with—is what *he* is sexually attracted to. My apologies to any who made have felt any erasure by that. Definitely not my intention.


	4. i just want your extra time (and your kiss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of firsts for David and Patrick that includes baseball and badges.

FRIDAY

Patrick wakes to find David staring at him like he wants to gobble him up for breakfast. The sun is slanting in through the open curtains—they must have forgotten to close them last night—and the sheets are tangled up all around them. He really needs to leave a generous tip for the housecleaning team, Patrick thinks. 

David smiles that sleepy early morning smile Patrick has come to love and tilts himself onto his stomach, resting on his elbows, head hovering above Patrick, one hand tentatively touching the soft crest of Patrick’s bed mussed hair. “I never noticed before that your hair has some red in it.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick blushes as if David just discovered something unsavory like he has three nipples or six toes. “A few of my cousins have bright red hair. Must be in the genes.”

David nods silently and sucks in his lips. 

Patrick scoots himself up onto his pillow so he’s semi-reclined. “Why? Is that a deal breaker for you or something?” Patrick resists the urge to panic. He’d probably dye his hair blonde if David told him he preferred it. It would probably look terrible on him. 

“Oh no,” David breathes out quickly with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s just reactivating a few of my Prince Harry fantasies.”

Patrick loves that laughter exists even here in their bed. He’s never had that before and now he knows he can’t live without it. Beds had always been a battleground of hurt feelings and disappointment before. Before David. 

“Well, hello, guv’nor.” Patrick says in a Cockney accent, laying it on as thick as he can.

“Not bad,” David grins, obviously pleased the Patrick is playing along. “How did you learn to do accents like that?”

“Oh, I did some theater in high school. A few musicals. I was in _My Fair Lady._”

“Well, that is disturbing news.”

“You think so? How about this then?” And Patrick switches into a softer, more dignified English accent, the kind reserved for Jane Austen, Hugh Grant, and princes. “I’m just a boy lying in bed with another boy, asking him to kiss me.” 

“I know you think you’re funny,” David says, his lips quivering in his effort to not smile, “but that’s actually really working for me.”

Patrick keeps the accent. “Why don’t you show me then, David.” 

David’s voice is serious even though his eyes are dancing with brazen delight. “Your wish is my command,” he says as his finds the soft crook of Patrick’s neck and begins to suck. 

“God save the queen,” Patrick squeaks and then there’s no more talking. 

***  


Instead of ordering more room service, David drags Patrick out of the Four Seasons to wander through the endless streets of New York. Patrick doesn’t know or care if David is leading them in any particular direction—probably toward food, he suspects—but David doesn’t seem to mind at all when Patrick stops to ogle the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. It’s just a bridge, he knows, Toronto is full of them too and some just as picturesque, but it still makes Patrick feel awed to see something so solid and historic.

“It’s beautiful, right?” David says softly, a warm smile on his face as he gestures towards the bridge’s iconic tower. 

Patrick nods silently and follows David when he indicates that they should continue on their way.

Patrick has been accused of being an old soul what with his love of tea and reading actual, physical books and not Twitter feeds. He’s always liked that about himself, how he’s just a little bit old-fashioned, the kind of man who opens doors for strangers and smiles and says hello like he means it. Until yesterday, he worried that David, with his couture fashion and avant-garde aesthetics, wouldn’t appreciate Patrick’s small town charm, but then he’d taken Patrick to The Cloisters and Patrick thought maybe David understands him more than he lets on. 

So Patrick feels a thrill when David steers him to Little Italy and into [Nickel and Diner](https://www.instagram.com/p/BmD4c1cl-9P/), a retro New York cafe rendered all in black and white. The black and white tiles of the floor matches David’s black and white striped sweater—seriously, why all the sweaters in the sweltering heat of July?—but Patrick loves how David somehow belongs here too, that there are places where they both belong together. 

The hostess hands them a tasteful one-page menu and Patrick catches David smiling to himself. 

“What?” Patrick asks, because he wants to know everything that David is thinking as soon as he thinks it. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” David smirks. “Just remembering a cafe I used to go to with the largest menus you’ve ever seen. Like as big as this table.” 

“I’ve been to diners like that,” Patrick says with a laugh. “So many choices and most of it only moderately edible.”

“True,” but David says it in such a way that Patrick thinks David is nostalgic for more than just black and white tiles and over-sized menus. 

They order and Patrick fidgets with the straw of his iced tea while they wait. He’s normally so relaxed around David, but he wants to take David out tonight and he’s feeling like a high schooler about to ask his crush to the Homecoming dance. 

“Will you come with me to the Mets game tonight?” Patrick finally spits out. “It’s an inter-league game against the Yankees. Half of New York will be there. My bank has access to great seats along the third base line.”

“Oh, I like third base,” David says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Not that third base,” Patrick amends, but now he’s thinking of all the non-sports related bases he’d like to round with David and his desire to watch baseball is quickly being overtaken by other potential forms of exercise they could do together. 

“I know nothing about cricket though.”

“Baseball,” Patrick replies with a tilt to his head, but he recognizes that David hasn't exactly said no yet either. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you the rules.”

“It’s just that I have very strong feelings about team sports.”

David scrunches up his face as if he’d rather balance his checkbook, which Patrick thinks he’s probably never done in his life. That’s how much he wants to watch sports with Patrick, which should be a sign to let it drop but Patrick is stubbornly persistent when he wants to be. He’s glad David is making him work for it though. 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Patrick promises.

“Oh, will you now?”

“Yes.”

“I am open to your negotiations.”

“Well, for starters, there’s hot dogs.”

David cocks his head like a golden retriever and slowly blinks. “I’m listening.”

“And French fries.”

“Go on.”

“And nachos.” 

“Oh, yes, you know how to talk dirty.”

“You can even get ice cream in a plastic helmet.”

“Ok. Well, now you’ve lost me. Who wants to eat ice cream out of a hat?” He throws his hands up with an exasperated sigh. 

“Just try it,” Patrick insists. “You might be surprised how much fun you have.” 

“I’ll come with you,” David begrudgingly agrees. “But only because you’ve promised me a good time. I’m going to hold you to it.” He says it with such a lascivious wink that Patrick can’t help but blush. But when the waitress brings their food, Patrick notices that David lets him try a bite of his lemon ricotta pancakes and actually leaves him some bacon and it feels like a peace offering, a promise to try something new just for Patrick’s sake.

***

That afternoon, Patrick works quietly on his laptop while David dozes in and out of consciousness. It’s nice. Domestic. Patrick wouldn’t mind if this fantasy world was his real one; just an eternity of David asleep in his bed. He’s finished about as much of the deal package as he can without the financials Raine Corp has promised to send them by tomorrow, so he doesn’t see much sense in continuing the pretense of work. He closes everything down, draws the curtains, and gingerly sits on the side of the bed, deciding what to do next.

David stirs beside him, muffled and sluggish with sleep. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Patrick whispers, hand stroking David’s rumpled hair. 

“Mm. Tired?” David asks, eyes barely cracked open. 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes. “Pretty tired.”

David lifts the corner of the sheets. “Come sleep with me,” he murmurs invitingly. 

Patrick hesitates for just the briefest second since David seems more asleep than awake right now. But he toes off his shoes and slides himself under the sheets and lets David pull him wordlessly into his side where it’s warm and soft and safe.

_Yes, a lifetime of this_, Patrick thinks before he’s tugged under into blissful slumber.

***

Patrick is tying his shoes, the last step in getting ready for the baseball game. He looks up to see that David is pulling on yet another sweater. In a surprise twist, this time it’s white with black lettering in a bold print that reads “Wild Aloof Rebel.”

Patrick smiles to himself. “You sure you want to wear that?”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” David glances down at himself in confusion.

“Well, aside from the fact that it’s nearly 90 degrees outside and the middle of summer, it’s white.”

“So?”

“It might get dirty is all.” 

“I’m just supposed to watch the match, right? I don’t actually have to touch a ball, do I?”

“No, no playing,” Patrick said. Thank god. But what he wouldn’t give to see David in those nice tight baseball pants. The fantasies are practically writing themselves. “We’ll just be watching. As long as you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m always sure about my clothes.”

David gives an appraising look at Patrick’s two-toned baseball tee, mid-range denim, and mountaineering boots, but blessedly keeps his mouth shut. Patrick is sure David has many opinions about what Patrick is wearing but appreciates the monumental fortitude it must require to keep his opinions to himself. Aside from the night of the gala, David seems content to let Patrick be himself, wearing his wrong clothes and wrong shoes, but he still catches David looking at him sheepishly from time to time, as if he’s frustrated to still find him adorable. And Patrick honestly wouldn’t change a thing about David or how he dresses even though some of his clothes are infuriatingly difficult to get David out of. 

They head through the door and Patrick can’t stop himself from swatting David on the ass as he walks past him. David turns to glare at Patrick and Patrick throws his hands up in surrender. 

“Hey. That’s just how it’s done in baseball. There’s lots of ass swatting. You’ll see.”

And David laughs like maybe he won’t hate this so much after all.

***

The seats are way better than Patrick had anticipated. Clear views of home plate and the third base line and in easy range to have some foul balls come their way. Patrick wishes he had his glove with him; he’d love to impress David by catching a foul ball in front of him. And he wasn’t wrong that half of New York seemed to be crowding into the stands at Citi Field. It’s always that way when two teams from the same city play. David had given him a look when Patrick said the stadium was in Queens but had swallowed down whatever retort he had wanted to unleash.

David flops into the seat to Patrick’s right, hand already lost in a buttery bowl of popcorn. 

“So we want these Met people to win?” he asks between mouthfuls of popcorn. 

“Well, no self-respecting baseball fan roots for the Yankees,” Patrick says, ignoring the icy glares of a few nearby Yankees fans. “So yes, we want the Mets to win.”

“And there are how many people on a squad?”

“Team. There are nine. A pitcher, catcher, four infielders, and three outfielders.”

“And which role did you play?” 

Huh. Did Patrick ever mention he played baseball? He can't remember. He ignores the thought and answers. “Position. I was a decent catcher, but it’s hell on your knees. I also played outfield.”

They’re interrupted by the National Anthem and the ceremonial first pitch and then they’re settling back into their seats, torsos angled toward each other like mirrored Leaning Towers of Pisa, heads bent together as Patrick quickly explains innings and strikes zones and foul balls to David.

David spends most of his time scrolling on his phone, screen tipped away so Patrick can’t tease him about falling for more click bait, or wondering aloud what food he should sample next. By the fifth inning, he’s polished off a bucket of popcorn (with help from Patrick), two hot dogs, garlic fries, and a plate of nachos. He’s just spied a kid eating soft serve vanilla-chocolate swirl out of one of those plastic helmets he had previously derided and now seems rather amenable to the idea of eating one himself. 

There is some sudden cheering and David’s head pops up. “Did we score a goal?”

Patrick chuckles and points to the big jumbotron screen across the field from them. “No. We’re between innings right now. It’s the Kiss Cam. Always a popular pastime at big sporting events.”

“Kiss Cam?” David nearly shrieks and takes in the sight of couples (and sometimes strangers) being singled out by an unrelenting camera lens to share awkward, stilted kisses in front of the assembled masses. “Ew, no.” 

“What’s wrong with the Kiss Cam?” Patrick asks, but David is now fixated on the screen, ignoring him completely. Patrick glances down, just briefly, not even on purpose, and sees the screen of David’s phone before it slides into blackness. He has not, as Patrick assumed, been scrolling Twitter or Instagram or any of the other celebrity/fashion/gossip sites, but was clearly reading the Wikipedia entry on baseball, trying to learn the difference between the American League and National League, curve balls and change-ups. 

Patrick’s heart clenches in his chest, hands itchy in his lap. He wants desperately to hold David’s hand, just take it in his own, but that feels so unbearably intimate, more so than kissing and sex. Because holding his hand means something. It says something about permanence and wanting, desire and possession. And Patrick wants all of it, wants to claim him, and wants David to feel it in the crush of his fingers in his. 

He’s just about to reach out when David smacks Patrick’s arm and gasps, pointing up to the jumbotron. 

And then Patrick sees that his face is three stories high, bracketed in a heart-shaped box along with the pretty blonde twenty-something woman sitting next to him. She smiles at Patrick with a shrug and indicates that she’s willing to go along with the Kiss Cam charade. The crowd starts chanting for him to kiss her. Patrick freezes for just a moment, his body now whirling with too many thoughts and emotions before he turns to the woman, whispers, “sorry!”, and turns to David instead. He grabs his chin between his thumb and index finger, turns his lips toward his, and kisses him with the deafening applause of 40,000 baseball fans thundering through his ears. 

It’s a terribly sloppy, terribly perfect kiss. David is giggling against Patrick’s lips and Patrick is thrumming with adrenaline, so he’s missed his mark just a bit and is mostly kissing David’s chin. But David tastes like salt and summer nights and Patrick’s heart is flying out his chest like he just hit a grand slam. 

Patrick finally pulls away and David is still smiling that wide, delighted smile of his. “So,” he says.

“So,” Patrick replies. 

“You just kissed me in front of half of New York.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t have to.” David shakes his head, but his eyes scream a different answer. 

“Why would I kiss someone else when I could be kissing you?” 

“I’m glad you did,” David ducks his head, fumbles with his phone. 

And Patrick feels emboldened now and doesn’t hesitate to reach out and take David’s hand in his, slotting each finger into the spaces between, not caring anymore who knows what he knows deep in his gut about who he is and where he belongs. He turns back to the game, giving a whoop as the ball connects with the bat with a hearty crack and the Mets’ batter advances to first base. Patrick feels rather than sees David look down at their entwined hands and smile to himself. David continues to scroll and Patrick continues to cheer and they never let their hands break apart, not even when David gets his third hot dog and dribbles mustard all over Patrick’s knuckles. David licks it off with swift flicks of his tongue so Patrick finds no reason to complain. 

The Mets lose to the Yankees, 3-1, but Patrick doesn’t even care. He’s never enjoyed watching his team lose more.

***

They stumble back to the hotel room after the game, giddy and still slightly tipsy even though Patrick only had one beer at the start of the game. David is intoxicating, Patrick decides; he always feels half-drunk whenever he’s around. They both quickly toe off their shoes (well, Patrick does, but David has to sit down to unlace his Rick Owens high tops with infuriating care) and then they’re reaching for the hems of each other’s shirts (well, sweater in David’s case) to yank them off, groping their way to the bed, trading giddy kisses as they sink into it together.

Patrick’s hands can’t move fast enough to touch all the parts of David that he needs to feel, but they pull David closer and tangle into his hair the way David likes best and Patrick feels his breath catch in his throat. 

"I want you,” Patrick pants, nosing David’s neck near the jaw, the Adam’s apple, “I want you all the time, David.” 

“You can have me,” David catches Patrick’s lips with his own, tasting him with lips and tongue and teeth. 

“I’ve never felt this way before,” Patrick whispers, half dazed, fully drunk on David now, hands tracing the lines of his ribcage to the rhythm of David’s heart. “Like I just can’t get enough. Can’t get enough of you.” 

David pulls his lips away and cradles Patrick’s face in his gentle hands and smiles at him softly. “What part of me do you want first?”

David is looking at Patrick expectantly, blissfully, bashfully. He’s offering Patrick his choice and Patrick knows David would give him anything he asked for, even if it wasn’t something David would choose for himself. But how can Patrick tell him that he wants it all, wants every little part of David? That he wants to explore every inch of him and lay claim to each ticklish patch of skin, every bone and tendon, wants to burrow his way into David’s heart, build a home for himself there, and never let go? 

You can’t say things like that. Not to a man you’ve only known for three days. It would be too much. Is it too much? Patrick’s pretty sure David would tell him that’s against the rules even though they stopped playing by the rules days ago. 

Instead, Patrick looks at the long line of David’s flushed neck, the searing cut of his stubbled jawline, the perfect swoop of his obsidian hair and the desperate thing inside of him escapes out.

“I want to feel you inside me.”

David stills above Patrick, blinks, and a smile spreads, slowly, just one upturned corner at a time. 

“Is that....okay?” Patrick asks, feeling suddenly shy and uncertain.

“God, yes, Patrick. I just want to be sure that’s what you want. You don’t have to, you know. Plenty of men don’t prefer that.”

“Do you...um...do you like it?” Patrick asks, because he truly doesn’t want to make David do something he doesn’t like, but he also can’t stop thinking about it. 

“I like it very much.” David swallows his smile, looking directly into Patrick’s searching eyes. 

“Then that’s what I want.” Patrick admits and is pleased that this time he doesn’t blush. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” David whispers, and maybe now he’s the one who is blushing, but Patrick doesn’t get a good look before David is redefining the perfect kiss against his willing lips. 

“Do you have.....provisions? I’m not prepared.” Patrick gasps when David finally allows him to come up for air. 

“Of course,” David grins as he slides indelicately out of Patrick’s embrace and reaches into the drawer of the bedside table to pull out several bottles of very expensive looking lube, a pile of Japanese condoms, and a towel. When did David put those here? He’s pretty sure they don’t come compliments of the Four Seasons. 

“Wow,” Patrick breathes out with a muffled laugh. “That is a veritable buffet of safety right there.”

“What can I say?” David cocks one delicious eyebrow. “I’m a safety guy. Always come prepared. Like a Boy Scout of Safe Sex you might say. Do you think I could earn a badge for that?” 

“Well, if not,” Patrick grins, “I’ll make you one myself.” 

David smiles back at Patrick and places one hand on Patrick’s heaving chest. David bows his head, eyes gently shut, as if listening to a secret message beating out of Patrick’s heart . Patrick tries to calm his breathing, tamp down his erratic heart. He’s apprehensive but not nervous. He’s glad, most of all, that it’s David who will inaugurate him into this next new thing. That he will guide him every step of the way, and take care of him, make it easy, make it good. 

David seems to hear what he needs to hear, because the next thing Patrick knows, David’s pressing his hot, wet mouth back onto Patrick’s while his hands float to the waistband of Patrick’s jeans. He tilts his hips up so David has easier access to the zipper and his pants are coming off. They get stuck on around Patrick’s calves and ankles and David has to break off the kiss to tug them off the rest of the way, making adorable grunting sounds that under no circumstance should be sexy but still manage to turn Patrick on. 

David sits back on his haunches and takes in all of Patrick. “I love your thighs.”

Patrick blushes furiously; he can feel it at the very tips of his ears. “I believe the adjective you used was thick.”

“Mmm. Like tree trunks,” David agrees, straddling Patrick’s lap. “They’re glorious. I want to wrap myself up in them.” 

Patrick swallows, almost painfully, the need scorching his throat. He’s a desert blistering under an unrelenting monochrome sun. 

Before he can burn apart, Patrick surges up to kiss David again, his arms wrapping around David’s warm back, Patrick’s fingers skimming David’s impossibly smooth skin. 

David guides Patrick silently onto his back, trailing kisses along the pressure points, ghosting gentle fingers over Patrick’s heart. “Lift your hips for me” David instructs as he situates a pillow under Patrick for better leverage. David reaches for one lube, changes his mind and grabs another, slicking up his fingers. He wordlessly spreads Patrick’s legs apart. 

“Ready?”

And all Patrick can do is nod and David is putting one gentle hand on Patrick’s knee, while he circles and then slips in one finger, two fingers, three and Patrick can’t hold back the moans that escape from his panting lips. 

“You ready for more?” David asks, low voiced. Patrick would think David was trying for a sultry, seductive voice, but Patrick takes one look at David’s wrecked face and sees that this is tearing David apart just as much as it is Patrick. Patrick bites his lip and nods. 

“I need to hear you say it, Patrick.” 

“God, yes, David. Please. I want you.” 

David grabs another bottle of lube and hands it to Patrick. “I need your help then,” he says with a pointed look. When he’s ready, David steadies himself again Patrick, lines himself up, and plunges in. Patrick breathes deep and wills himself not to grimace, to give over to every sensation, to imprint in his mind all that this night has brought him. 

“You’re so tight,” David grunts at the same time that Patrick gasps, “You feel so good.”

And he’s not sure how, but David manages to find the perfect rhythm, the perfect speed to disassemble Patrick from the inside out. It’s like he was made for Patrick with his perfect hair and perfect smile, those perfect hands, and perfect dick, and he’d say those things to David now if his mouth wasn’t shouting “God, yes” over and over and if he wasn’t tingling from head to toe, feeling the persistent hook of need sear through his abdomen, if David wasn’t stroking him with glorious efficiency, if he wasn’t coming faster and harder than he’d ever done before. He’d never known sex could be like this, never had a clue it could make him see stars, feel weightless and grounded all at once. 

David pulls out, swiftly but with care, and flops down next to Patrick, both now panting dazedly on their backs. David hooks one ankle over Patrick's. Patrick looks to David with blazing eyes. 

“I can’t wait to do that to you.” 

And David smiles at him like he’d like nothing better, staring at Patrick with undisguised affection and want. 

“Me too, Patrick. I’ll make you the biggest fucking badge you've ever seen.”


	5. we were never carved in stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and David discover all the things they know--and don't know--about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that this chapter gets a little heavy, but rest assured that it all ends well (or at least, it will eventually). Also, all the trigger warnings because Sebastien fucking Raine.

SATURDAY

The morning dawns bright and radiant; the first Saturday of July. Patrick’s stomach churns with the knowledge that the next step in brokering this deal for his bank rests on his shoulders tonight. Even though Edward Raine won’t be there, he knows he needs to impress the son nonetheless. He knows he can do it with David by his side. 

He spends the morning attempting to do some work at the desk in the hotel room, but is constantly distracted by an increasingly bored David who keeps peppering him with soft kisses and pulling him back to bed. Patrick really doesn’t mind, at all, but he’s also going to have to find another place to work if he’s going to have any hope of actually finishing this deal before Tuesday. 

“You know,” David pipes up from his spot on the bed, his third interruption already this hour, “there’s a really big bathtub in that bathroom that I think neither of us have used yet.” 

Patrick looks up from his computer, brain struggling to catch up to the words that have fallen from David’s lips. 

“Oh?”

“So I was just thinking that we should change that.” 

Patrick gulps and shuts his laptop with a steely click. 

“Only if you’d be interested,” David says with forced indifference, like he isn’t dying to get Patrick wet and naked. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from your work. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Patrick parrots back, but his mouth is suddenly dry. 

“So.” David cocks one inviting eyebrow at him. 

_Holy fuck._

“So,” Patrick says. A pause. “David.”

“Patrick.”

“I’m very interested in your proposal.”

“Oh,” David says with a flash of perfect teeth. A beat. “Did you want to schedule that for now...or later.”

“Definitely now,” Patrick growls already halfway to the bathroom. David scrambles off the bed to follow. 

David starts the water, taking care to get it to the perfect temperature before he sheds his clothes, daring Patrick to watch, and climbs into the tub. He settles against its smooth porcelain side and beckons Patrick to join him. Patrick doesn’t waste any time stripping down and slides into the blissfully warm water, settling his back against David’s hairy chest. David secures his legs around Patrick’s body and begins to methodically wipe down Patrick’s chest and arms with a soft sponge, his stubbled chin hooked in the crook of Patrick shoulder. His hands are tender and Patrick feels languid and relaxed. It’s the most relaxed he thinks he’s ever been in his life.

David reaches for his shampoo and pours a generous amount into Patrick’s hair, gently massaging it through his scalp. Patrick thinks he might be moaning, but he’s gone limp and boneless under David’s adept hands so he’s not entirely sure where that noise is coming from. David is careful with Patrick’s face as he rinses out the shampoo, brushing iridescent soap suds out of Patrick’s eyes with his fingertips. He smooths in the conditioner and tells Patrick to let it sit while it works its magic on his scalp and hair. The smell of David is everywhere around him, on him. 

And then Patrick makes them switch positions, wrapping his thighs around David and squeezing tight as he applies the shampoo to David’s mane. He’s never really seen David like this before, so wild and undone. His hair is longer than he realized; silky to the touch. He rinses him down and lets his hands wander over chest and back and thighs, loving the lazy smiles and ticklish twitches he’s able to produce. They drop lazy kisses on each other's mouths and jaws and necks, but don't force it to go further.

Patrick hugs his arms around David, and fits his hands over David’s like a tent, like he's about to pray. 

“I love your hands,” Patrick says, smoothing his hands over David’s, comparing their size and weight against his own. “They’re so strong and big. I liked holding them last night.” David leans back into Patrick and nudges his nose into Patrick’s neck. 

“I like feeling them all over you.” David says in a playful tone. Patrick presses a kiss into David’s exposed neck. 

They lay there in silence for awhile. Patrick thinks if he blinked for too long, he might just fall asleep, but the solid weight of David against him keeps him anchored and awake. He moves slightly so that he can look David in the eyes.

“Tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”

David’s eyes darken, questioning. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’re still pretending like we’re strangers, but that’s not really true anymore, is it? I may not know your last name, or even if David is your real name, but I already know a lot about you. I want to know more.” 

David is silent and still. He clears his throat. “What do....what do you think you know?”

Patrick tilts his mouth up shyly: “I know that you used to run an art gallery and you love contemporary art because it makes you feel something. I know you have discerning tastes when it comes to art and fashion, but you can still find the beauty in the mundane and the ordinary. I know you used to travel a lot, but don’t anymore. I know you hate sports, but you’re willing to try new things. I know you love to tease, but you’re rarely ever mean. I know that when it comes to food, you have no standards at all and will eat anything. And I do mean anything. I’m pretty sure I saw you eat something out of the trash yesterday.” But Patrick smiles fondly over the memory. “I know you have an encyclopedic knowledge of rom-coms. I know you write in your little black journal every day and you rearrange the rings on your hand depending on your mood. I know the sounds you make when you come and I know that you smile every time I kiss you right there.” Patrick presses a wrinkled finger on David’s neck, just below his ear. “So David, tell me something else I don’t know. Tell me something true.” 

David’s eyes are shiny and wide; he keeps shaking his head like he can’t believe what he just heard. But he takes a deep breath and responds: 

“My name really is David. I had a nanny named Adelina and she would made me empanadas as an afterschool snack. They were my favorite and you will never denigrate finger foods in my presence again. I broke my nose when I was 13 and I still have nightmares of basketballs flying at my face. I traveled around the world mostly to save my sister from herself. I also know that no one’s ever asked me that kind of question before.” 

He clears his throat and presses on. “I know you know all the shortcuts in Excel so you don’t have to use your mouse. I know you like it when I touch you on your hip and you’re the most ticklish underneath your ribcage. I know you miss your parents and the small town you grew up in. I know a lot about you too, Patrick.”

“I never doubted that. That’s another thing I know about you, David. You notice everything.”

And the bright, beaming smile David gives him is something true too. They sit entwined together until the water turns cold and they can't stop shivering against each other's wet, slick skin. But the remnant of something warm remains long after the water has drained away.

***

“I’ll just be minute, and then we can go,” David calls from the bathroom. The time has finally come to head to Sebastien Raine’s gallery opening.

Patrick pats his pockets, making sure he has all the things he needs, when David’s phone vibrates and lights up on the table. David normally guards his phone assiduously and Patrick thinks it must be a sign of David’s growing trust in him that made him forget to take it into the bathroom with him. He’s standing right there, so Patrick sees the message that comes through from someone named Stevie: “Warmest regards on your birthday. Call me, dumbass.” 

David comes breezing out the bathroom and pockets his phone without even glancing at it, and smiles that smile that liquefies Patrick’s insides. “Ready?”

Patrick stares at David just a beat too long and then says, “Yes. Yes, let’s go” and is reaching for his hand before his brain has even connected the dots. Today is David’s birthday and he never said a thing.

***

The 303 Gallery is housed inside a non-descript modern skyscraper sidled next to industrial lofts and squat brick warehouses with teeth full of rolling gates. Chelsea Piers is just across 11th Avenue and the now familiar scent of the Hudson is leaking into Patrick’s senses as they step into the cavernous gallery space with its stark white walls laden with framed photographs and smugness.

The gallery is already full of people, a strange combination of artsy hipsters and monied suits tolerating each other for the sake of Art, with a capital A. Patrick has never understood the hipster aesthetic of curated sloppiness, high-end homelessness, preferring his normal person uniform of shirts with buttons and collars, pants belted into place with leather. He likes the crisp lines and tidy angles of his clothes and how they also render him unremarkable, just a normal person with normal desires who feels just right, who fits right in. 

Patrick doesn’t think he’ll change how he dresses even now that he recognizes that he’s never felt just right, at least not as right as he feels standing here next to David, who always stands out, always looks remarkable. David’s clothes are a complete mystery to Patrick which both thrills and amuses him. Sometimes, David seems to hunker into layers of black and white, burrowing into his sweaters like a turtle who carries its shelter on its back. But other times there’s a softness about him, or a sly little wink woven into cashmere and knits. 

But tonight, the only word that describes David is hot. He’s all in black—of course—but it’s a devastating combination of ripped black jeans, black tee shirt and a black leather jacket. It makes David look impossibly cool and hard, but Patrick had brushed his hand against the sleeve of David’s jacket, and it felt softer than velvet under his touch. Patrick is dying to—respectfully—remove it from David’s body later tonight. 

David is wound up tight and Patrick thinks David is even more nervous than he is right now, which is kind of sweet actually. Maybe he’s feeling a little raw after their conversation in the bathtub or maybe David is just nervous about running into someone he knows here. David’s eyes are raking over all the people, barely registering the art. 

Patrick is just starting to take in the actual subject matter of the photographs when he hears a deep, insouciant voice behind him. 

“Well, isn’t this a surprise. David R—”

“Sebastien Raine,” David says quickly, cutting him off. Patrick turns to see a very tall, very handsome, very pretentious man with wild hair and scruffy clothes obviously assembled to look unfinished. Patrick already wants to punch him in the face. 

“David, look at you. So good to see you,” Sebastien slinks in to kiss David on both cheeks like a European. “You look really….healthy.” 

David grimaces, “Thanks?” 

Patrick’s fists clench unbidden. But then he remembers that this is Edward Raine’s son. He still has to play nice with him even though David is looking at Sebastien like he’s never hated anyone more. He consciously relaxes his hands, loosens his jaw. 

“I’d heard you were back in the city. That’s so brave of you,” Sebastien is saying, voice dripping with false interest. 

David rolls his eyes, but nods his head like he wants to agree with him. 

Sebastien notices Patrick for the first time. “Who’s this guy?” 

“This is my friend, Patrick Brewer” David intercedes, words softening just slightly on the word friend. “We were invited by your father, actually. Patrick is doing business with him.” David’s voice sounds almost….proud, like he’s proud of Patrick and his business knowledge and love of spreadsheets. Patrick feels like his whole body was just dipped into something warm. Again.

“The old man did say I needed to play nice with some suit. But I guess he just meant you.”

Patrick tries not to read it as the insult it probably is as Sebastien eyes Patrick’s rolled-up sleeves, blue button down shirt, dark wash denim. David had insisted he not wear a suit. David was right. But David also clearly knows—knew?—Sebastien Raine and never said a thing to Patrick. He tries to not feel like he’s been used or betrayed, but he’s not sure what is going on here exactly. His thoughts are starting to spiral out of control. 

Patrick extends his hand, relieved it still looks steady, normal. A normal person’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Your father said you were an emerging talent.” 

Sebastien doesn’t even pretend to demure. Patrick hates him more for his arrogance, for the stupid cleft in his stupid chin. 

“Dad would like it if I paid more attention to the family business, but exposing the juxtapositions of life is my calling. My camera guides me to what is most important.”

Patrick wants to make some crack about what a bullshit non-answer that is. He likes how modern art looks through David’s eyes, with its desperate search for truth, for visualizing what is intangible and unexplainable. Sebastien thinks he’s on a search for what is terrifying and important, but the only thing his art uncovers is his love for himself. And there’s no beauty in that. Even Patrick can see that. 

“I don’t know much about art,” Patrick decides to say instead. “But I’m learning.” And his eyes flit to David to search his face, to remind him that he has him now, and David meets his eye, looking gratified.

Sebastien looks between the two men for a beat, trying to read the glance being shared between them and then turns to address Patrick. “Well, I hope you enjoy the show. I think you might find a piece or two that speaks to you.” Patrick feels like he’s being dismissed. Sebastien isn’t even looking at him now, but at David, who’s looking up at Sebastien with an expression that Patrick can’t parse. In so many ways, David is an open book whose lines Patrick has all but memorized. In other ways, he’s indecipherable, untranslatable. 

“David, walk with me. I feel like we have unfinished business.” Sebastien extends his arm toward David. 

David’s eyes finally slide to Patrick’s face, whose eyebrows are raised in a question, ready to intercede. David nods at him slightly. “I’ll find you in a bit, Patrick,” he says softly as he lets Sebastien lead him away by the crook of his arm. 

Patrick feels like he’s been punched in the gut, like he’s been betrayed, like he’s jealous, like he needs to protect David. He doesn’t know which emotion to believe, doesn’t know which one to act on. 

So he begins a slow, tortuous walk through the gallery instead, seeing but not seeing the world through Sebastien’s eyes, and hating himself over and over again because of it. The gallery is really just one large room; he can see David and Sebastien talking in the opposite corner. He makes his way to a quiet corner that includes a floating partition, where smaller photographs have been displayed. They are obviously Sebastien’s; same style, exposure, and lighting, but they also obviously do not belong to the larger photographs on display on the main walls. Earlier works, perhaps, one ofs, not a cohesive group. On the back side, almost tucked into obscurity where few eyes may have wandered thus far, Patrick sees a photograph that makes his body turn ice cold. 

David. Naked David—artfully posed to hide the full devastating truth of him—and it’s at once stunning and haunting. David is David, all his beautiful features and soft mouth, but this is also a David Patrick doesn’t know, doesn’t quite recognize. He looks dangerously thin, dangerously high, and Patrick feels his ribs constrict, bruising his too big heart. It’s a beautiful photograph of a beautiful subject, but Patrick knows that David would hate to know that anyone was looking at this, seeing him so exposed. Patrick doesn’t want anyone to see David this way and not the way that Patrick sees him, something rare and remarkable.

Patrick moves closer to the small text label next to the photograph. “Nocturne No. 5: Dichotomy in Black and White” it reads and gives a price. 

Without even thinking, Patrick signals to one of the gallerists working the space, points to the photograph, and says he wants it. He’ll pay more, even, if they remove it and wrap it up for him right now.

***

Patrick can see David is still having a controlled but obviously heated discussion with Sebastien fucking Raine across the room. He wonders how long he needs to give them space, wonders how long until he can take David away. He’s given up any pretense that he needs to make a good impression on Edward Raine’s son. He approaches slowly, but can still hear the conversation over the din of the other patrons.

“You leave my mother out of this.”

“C’mon, David. She sounded very excited about my vision over the phone.”

“Of course she did. But you just want to take advantage of her weaknesses, like you do all your subjects.”

“I merely provide the canvas upon which my subjects can reveal themselves.”

“No, Sebastien. There is nothing inspired in your work. It’s derivative and manipulative. How many of these people here tonight came because of your father?”

“That’s a rich comparison, especially coming from you.” 

David says nothing but Patrick can read the fury in his face and its startling in its ferocity, its depth. Sebastien seems unburdened by David’s burning glare, this whole conversation. 

David finally speaks. “Stay away from my mother.”

Patrick can’t hold himself back now, stepping confidently next to David’s side. “I would listen to him if I were you.” 

Sebastien merely guffaws. And Patrick feels a boiling fire ignite in his belly. 

David presses a gentle hand to Patrick’s elbow. “He’s not worth it, Patrick. Let’s just go.”

As they turn their backs, Sebastien lobbies one final parting shot, “Lovely to see you as always, David Rose. I’ll be sure to tell your mother when I see her.”

David stops, his back to Sebastien, Patrick flanked protectively at his side. His eyes close briefly, his jaw clenches and unclenches, and then he marches out of the gallery, back ramrod straight, without a backwards glance at Sebastien Raine.

***

David keeps walking, back stiff, arms crossed, and Patrick follows, clutching his package with the framed photograph of David in his trembling hands. The sidewalks are surprisingly bare for New York City and it feels bleak and desolate here with the weight of David’s past uncovered against all this brick and cement. David walks a few blocks and then veers suddenly and climbs a set of stairs that Patrick hadn’t even noticed, and they emerge into a breathtaking green space above, an elevated park built onto an old train line with views of city unfurling out in front of them.

David walks on, never looking at Patrick but trusting he’s behind him, before he sinks into a secluded park bench, hidden behind enthusiastic wildflowers flowering up between the remains of the old wooden rails. Patrick can sense that David is withdrawing even more into the protective shell of his leather jacket and he’ll have to be patient if he’s going to coax him out again. Patrick sits beside him, tucking his brown-wrapped package between his feet and the bench, and leaves space between them for the ghosts of David’s past. 

The silence stretches on for what feels like hours until Patrick clears his throat and cuts through the tension with a gentle voice. 

“So you’re David Rose.”

“Yes.” 

“Of the Rose Video Roses.”

“Yes. That’s correct.” David still won’t meet his eyes. 

Patrick tugs at the hair at the back of his neck, unsure what to do. He feels just as raw and exposed now that David’s identity is exposed too. “What happened? I mean, I remember reading that your family lost everything? A few years back? But how did you end up here?”

“As an escort, you mean?”

“I didn’t say—”

David cuts him off, “It’s a long story.”

“I’m a good listener,” Patrick insists, and he can feel David soften beside him, release some of his tension and terror. 

“I’m know you are. You’re a great fake friend, Patrick.” And now David finally looks at Patrick and he can see so much heartache in the liquid brown depths of his eyes.

“I’d be a real one, David, if you’d let me.” Patrick takes David’s hand gently into his, applying no pressure, just sharing some of his reassuring warmth. “I think….I’d like to think we’re more than friends now.”

David stills his face, a monumental task for him, and gives nothing away. “That’s a very nice thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true. I care about you, David.” _I love you, in fact,_ Patrick thinks to himself. But that’s crazy. He’s known him four days. The whole relationship could be an elaborate act on David’s part. But Patrick’s feels deep in his bones that it isn’t. Knows with certainty that there’s something here. 

“I can’t—” David looks away. Sniffs a little and groans as if he’s embarrassed to be having all these emotions out in the open, but his hand closes tightly around Patrick’s and like that, they sit as the sky grows darker around them and the city lights start to sparkle and gleam. Just David and Patrick on a park bench suspended in the sky.

***

It’s fully dark now, the [High Line Park](https://eportfolios.macaulay.cuny.edu/nycpublicspaces/files/2015/05/article-2139899-12EF2F80000005DC-992_964x1437.jpg) nearly deserted of people, but brimming with greenery and art and promise. Patrick marvels at how things once thought obsolete like this old train line can be reimagined and reinvented into something wholly new. The bones of the past are still there, but given new life, endowed with new meaning. If Patrick were more of a poet, he’d think about how this place is a fitting metaphor for David’s life, both of their lives. What new things could he become? Could they become together?

Patrick waits. He’ll wait however long David needs on this park bench, hands threaded together, just them against the world. 

“I knew Sebastien in my life before,” David finally manages, a whisper into the still summer night air. “Before my family lost everything.” Patrick nods and says nothing. David seems buoyed by Patrick’s silent presence and presses on. “We ran in similar circles, arty rich boys living off their parent’s money. I chased him for months. I said I just wanted to exhibit his photography at my gallery, but that was pretense. I mostly wanted him.”

“And did you…did you get what you wanted? From him?” Patrick doesn’t know any other way to ask what he really wants to ask. Did you fuck him? Did you love him? Do you still?

“Yes” is all David says and Patrick tries to stop his stomach from swooping into his legs. He’s grateful they’re sitting. 

“We burned hot for a few months. I did show an exhibit of his work at my gallery. I thought it was one of my best. I was really proud of it.”

Patrick waits for the but, waits for the crash. Finally, he can’t stand it anymore, “And then what happened?”

David looks down at their clasped hands and smiles wryly. “He got bored, I guess. Started dating other people, insisting an open relationship was what we both wanted.” David meets Patrick’s eyes again. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t what I wanted. But I went along with it for far too long.”

Patrick nods and says nothing. He knows what it’s like to go along with a relationship when you want so desperately to hold onto it, when you want so desperately for it to end. He doesn’t tell David this. 

“I caught him in our bed with two of his models and I finally kicked him out.” David shrugs. 

“In your own bed?” 

“I had a loft not far from here actually. He had basically moved in, but mostly used it as his place to screw other people.”

“David, I—”

“I let a lot of people screw me. Back then.” David shrugs. “Can’t eat mall pretzels anymore now either.” 

“Oh…um…I’m sorry?” Patrick can’t help smiling a bit at David’s affection for food. “About the pretzels. I know how difficult that must be for you.”

“It really is.” David sighs and finally looks at Patrick with a soft smile. 

Patrick hates that he needs to ask the next question, but he needs to know. “So did…um…did you agreeing to stay with me this week have anything to do with Sebastien, at confronting him?”

And now David’s eyes fill with a new tenderness. “Oh, Patrick, no. Please believe me when I say that. I only hesitated because of Sebastien, because I knew something like this this would happen. I didn’t want to ruin this for you. But I wanted to stay. With you.”

“Thank you, David.” Patrick’s cheeks burn with the heat of his smile, the swelling of tears he’d like to keep at bay. “You know, I’ve had more fun in these last four days with you than I’ve had in the last 10 years.”

“What a lovely thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“I think it’s true for me too.” 

Patrick clears his throat. “I have one more question. You don’t have to tell me,” Patrick says, eyes dropping to glance at David’s lips, a blush pinking the tips of his ears. “What happened to your family after the money was gone?”

David heaves a sigh and scoots imperceptibly closer to Patrick. “Well, we had an hour to pack our personal belongings and then we were dumped in this tiny little town called Schitt’s Creek.”

“Is that…?”

“Yes. That’s it’s actual name. It’s an adequate description of the place.”

“Why there?”

“My dad bought it as a joke when I was a kid. It was the only asset they let us keep, and we could live there for cheap. We lived in a dingy roadside motel. I had to sleep in a twin bed in a room I shared with my sister.”

“That does sound pretty bleak.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me. We did try to move on with our lives. We tried to make some friends. I even got a job as a bagger at a grocery store.”

Patrick bursts out laughing; he just can’t help himself. “I would honestly pay money to see that.”

David chuckles. “I didn’t even last an hour. Stevie teases me about it constantly.”

Patrick freezes when he hears the name from the text message. But he doesn’t want to confess that he saw the text, not when David is finally talking about his past. 

David senses Patrick’s confusion and answers the question he didn’t ask. “Stevie is my only friend in Schitt’s Creek. Probably the only real friend I’ve got.” 

“It’s good to have friends,” Patrick replies cautiously. “You still talk to him?”

“Stevie is a woman. And yes, we still talk. She’s kinda the reason I’m here.”

“How so?”

“Well, I did something stupid and I slept with her. A few times. It got….messy because she maybe felt things that I didn’t or maybe I felt things I didn’t understand. Anyway, I didn’t know how to handle it and so I ran.” 

“You ran away?”

“Sort of. I stole the mayor’s truck and drove until I ran out of gas at an Amish farm.”

“Wow. The Amish must have thought you were something else.” 

David laughs. “You’re not wrong. They were so desperate to get me to leave that they drove me in a horse and buggy to get more gas at the nearest gas station 10 miles away.”

They both laugh now. Patrick can just imagine David among the Amish, his monochrome wardrobe matching their own, but still standing out like a blazing sore thumb. He tucks away the mental image and bursts with the knowledge of the David before and the David after. 

“When I finally got to New York, I thought I could just pick up my old life again. Thought I’d have friends who would help me out. I thought I could get a job at another gallery. But that’s when I learned the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That all those ‘friends’ of mine were just using me for my money and connections. When those were gone, they wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, David,” Patrick says helplessly, “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s not even the worst part.” David gulps and goes on. “I found out that all the success I thought I had had with my gallery was really bought and paid for by my parents. They paid their friends to buy the art I sold. It was all a lie. My whole life had been a lie.”

“David.” Now Patrick’s voice breaks with the pain of it, the absolute devastation of the life David had and the truth of what it was now. 

David shakes away his tears and presses on, “So then I figured that if I got screwed so much for free, I could screw people for money. I thought it would make me feel cheap or used or gross, but it was shockingly easy. It’s really easy.” 

David is quiet now. Patrick has no response, has no words to put to the cacophony of emotions that course through him now: pain, empathy, affection, heartache, despair, love. 

David continues, like he can’t stop the confessions now that he’s finally given voice to them. Patrick suspects David has had very few people, if any, to say this to. “And you know what I discovered? They treat you better when they’re paying for it. I’m treated better by the ones who pay than by the ones who I gave it to for free.”

Patrick sits with the meaning behind those words, that so many people have had David and then hurt him. “You deserve so much more, David.”

David merely shrugs, but it’s half-hearted, as if he’s finally starting to believe that might be true. 

“Is your family still living at the motel?”

David exhales loudly. “Yeah. I send money back sometimes. To them. They were able to buy a car. My sister enrolled at the community college. It’s good. They’re actually doing okay.” David seems surprised and impressed by his family’s resilience. 

David looks to Patrick now, “You think I did the right thing?”

“David, I’m the wrong person to answer that. Only you can know that. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” 

“When I first agreed to stay for the week, I thought I could avoid Sebastien entirely. But he’s apparently been sniffing around my mother, wanting to take her photograph for a new series.” 

“Why?”

“Because he’s a monster who uses people and leaves them for dead,” David spits out, more angry than Patrick has ever heard him. He takes a deep breath and turns to Patrick, regret spilling into his eyes. “I’m so sorry I had to drag you into this. I didn’t want to ruin your business deal or anything.”

“David, it’s fine. Nothing is ruined.”

“I just….I just couldn’t let him hurt my mom.”

“Of course not, David.” Patrick agrees, resolutely. “You’re a good son. You make your parents proud.”

David smiles a sweet smile, and Patrick sees that now David is blushing too. Patrick closes the rest of the gap between them and fits the entire line of David into his side. As he does, his wrapped package tips over and clatters dimly on the cement ground and David notices it for the first time.

“What’s that?”

“I have a confession.”

“Okay.”

“I swear it was an accident.”

“So thank you presenting this in a way that does not make me want to freak out.”

“You were in the bathroom and you left your phone on the table when a text came through and I may have seen it.”

“And it inspired you to carry around an oddly shaped package?”

“It was from Stevie. To you,” Patrick blurts out. “Wishing you a happy birthday.”

“Oh. That.”

“So I was thinking that today might possibly be your birthday.”

David huffs as he blows out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, it is.”

“Well, happy birthday, David.” 

“Thank you, Patrick.” He waits for Patrick to say something, one eyebrow raised. “So is that a birthday gift….for me?”

Patrick tilts his head and closes one eye like he’s thinking. “Maybe?”

David’s eyes track back to the package, reaching out a hand for it. “Do I get to open it?”

“Oh, it’s embarrassing really…now that I know your history with Sebastien. I saw it at the gallery and I thought you’d want to have it, so no one else could have it. If that makes sense. It’s nothing, really.” 

Patrick moves to push the package out of David’s reach, but David is persistent and pulls it closer, squaring it up on his lap as he carefully peels away the tape and rough brown paper. And then he’s looking at his younger self and looking at Patrick looking at himself in the photograph and there’s so much in that look, and Patrick has to remind himself to push air into his lungs.

“This is not nothing,” David finally says. “So thank you.” Patrick can see David’s eyes shining as he brings his lips to meet Patrick’s in a simple kiss. He pulls away too quickly, but it feels like a souvenir ripped straight from David’s ribcage, and Patrick will take it with him where ever he goes from now on. 

David covers the photograph of himself back up with the crinkled edges of the paper and sets it to the side. He leans back and takes in the cityscape as if seeing it for the first time. From their elevated vantage point, the soaring buildings looks like steep man-made fjords and the roads asphalt inlets carrying people to destinations and futures unknown. David sighs, but it’s not one of his exasperated ones. It sounds satisfied, almost content. His eyes glitter in the dark with the reflected light of the bustling city.

“This city really is beautiful,” he says softly, eyes focused forward.

“Beautiful,” Patrick agrees but his eyes are locked on David and not the city pulsing all around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized yesterday that I hadn't included the bathtub scene which seemed like a pretty egregious omission so I wrote it in last night. I hope it adds a little something sweet (and sexy) to this chapter which gets a little tense. I like where this chapter takes us--Patrick needed to learn David's real identity--but it's not exactly light which is one of the things I love best about David and Patrick's relationship: there's generally a sense of levity even when things get a little heavy.


	6. i'll pretend my ship's not sinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Patrick enjoy a lazy Sunday together until they don't. David buys Patrick a gift. They talk. A piano gets involved in the proceedings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes two of the very first scenes I wrote for this fic and they're still some of my very favorites. However, when I started writing, I hadn't fully committed to telling this fic from Patrick's POV so there's a little bit of David's POV still here. I probably should have edited them out, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

SUNDAY

They’re sitting at the small table in the morning, David blowing into his coffee, Patrick nursing his tea. David hands Patrick that morning’s _Wall Street Journal_ without his usual wry comment about only grandpas reading it and then rustles through the _New York Times_ and emerges with the arts section. He immediately flips to the crossword puzzle like he has every morning this past week. He labors over it in pen (David has a thing about pencils), and he only manages to fill out half the squares every time, but Patrick loves his undaunted optimism, loves how he persists. 

After the confessions of last night, they had returned to the hotel room where Patrick pressed kisses into all David’s creases and whispered “happy birthday” and “beautiful” into his skin like a benediction. David timidly and with some regret asked if they could simply go to sleep and Patrick said, “of course, David, let’s just sleep” and he skillfully tucked David into him, the big spoon to David’s small, and wrapped his arms protectively around him. 

When they wake, it’s like they’ve been reset; the same, but truer versions of themselves. The easiness that has always marked their relationship is back, settling warmly around them like a blanket. Patrick loves mornings with David. He dreams of a time when there have been so many mornings just like this that he can’t even number them anymore. 

David glances up from his crossword, mouth soft and fond like he’s been counting the mornings too. He’s wearing black-rim plastic frames—the first time Patrick has seen him in them—and David in glasses is definitely going in the _holy fuck_ category of his mental spreadsheet. Because goddamn, David is gorgeous and he’s looking at Patrick like he’s a treat too. 

“Hey. What’s a five-letter word for ‘results of bull markets’?” 

The ordinariness of this moment makes Patrick’s heart squeeze. He peeks at the crossword, seeing what letters David has already deciphered, parsing the possibilities under his breath. He loves David’s handwriting, how each letter curves gracefully and fills the box boldly, no room for doubt. 

“Hmm. Gains, I think.”

“Yeah, I think that works. Thanks.” 

Patrick has had four days of David and three mornings and there are more days in their past than there will be in their future unless Patrick can figure out how to keep him, can find the right combination of words to convince David to stay. Patrick wants a fresh start and he wants it to include David in whatever way he can manage. He doesn’t know how to say all the things he feels, doesn’t know if David would believe him even if he tried. 

He pulls out his phone to scroll aimlessly through his feeds, trying to distract himself from the thoughts that are invading his mind, to keep his fingers busy. He hasn’t checked in days and he feels like he’s viewing all these people, these supposed friends of his, with new eyes, now that he’s wearing Rose-colored glasses. Patrick is embarrassed with himself for even thinking that. God, he’s got to make sure he never slips up and says that in front of David Rose himself. 

David notices Patrick’s wrinkled face and leans over to look at what Patrick is looking at, smiling up at him delightedly. 

“Something funny on Instagram?”

Patrick looks up, guiltily. “What? No. It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t think you were a big social media person.”

“Oh, I’m not really,” Patrick admits. “I kinda forget about it most of the time.”

“That’s obvious. Your LinkedIn profile could definitely use some work.” David sucks in his lips like he’s said too much. He quickly averts his eyes back to his crossword puzzle. 

Patrick lifts an eyebrow. “So you did Google me then.”

“No.”

“David.”

David looks up now, an impish grin creeping into the corners of his lips. “But can I just say it’s just such an honor to be in the presence of the 'Hero of Elm Tree’s Treed Cats.'”

“Oh God. It’s a small town! There’s not much news to report.”

“There were multiple articles though.” 

“Please say you just read one and moved on.” 

“Oh no. I’m very thorough in my internet stalking.”

“Just kill me now.” 

“I thought it was very sweet, you climbing all those trees to save your neighbor’s cat.” 

“I was 12! I mostly just wanted an excuse to climb trees. I’m actually allergic to cats.” 

“Always such a gentleman.” But the affection in David’s eyes is leaking out everywhere. 

“I could Google you now too, you know,” Patrick counters. And seriously, why hasn’t he yet? 

“Oh, I highly advise against that.” 

“I wonder what you were like as a teenager.”

“You would have hated me.” 

“You don’t know that.”

David pivots to avoid talking too deeply about himself. “Well, I do know that you looked adorable in your baseball outfit when you won your high school championship. Team captain, eh? It’s a wonder you never clued into your sexuality with all those balls flying at your head.”

Patrick stills at that, and David’s eyes fill with concern, fearing that he’s overstepped. Patrick has never put words to this new version of himself, but he wants suddenly for David to be the first person says it to, out loud. 

But David is clearly panicking, eyes squinting, mouth stretched in a frown. It’s one of David’s more impressively expressive faces and Patrick loves him all the more for it. “Patrick, I’m sorry—” he starts, but Patrick cuts him off by reaching across the table to grab his hand. 

“Don’t apologize, David.” Patrick smiles shyly. “You’re right though. I look back now and see all the signs I ignored or waved away, but it seems so obvious to me now. You’re the first man I’ve ever been with and I can’t imagine ever wanting to be with a woman again.” 

“Never?” David whispers. He doesn’t want to push, but he’s also looking for reassurance. 

“Never,” Patrick affirms. “Nothing has ever felt more right than being with you.” He inhales deeply and then exhales a breath that he feels like he’s been holding onto for fifteen years. “David, I’m really, really gay.” 

“Oh.” David raises Patrick’s hand to his mouth and presses an affectionate kiss into the space between his knuckles. Patrick looks embarrassed, just a tad. 

“And I have you to thank for that realization. David.”

Now David is the one who looks embarrassed. 

“Don’t look so worried, David.” Patrick says, rubbing his thumb in soothing motions across David’s hand. “This is a good thing. I feel relieved. I feel free.”

“I’m glad, Patrick.” David glances down. “I didn’t mean to presume…I mean, I’ve been with plenty of men who wanted to ‘experiment’ with me, but didn’t think that changed a thing about their sexuality.”

“This isn’t an experiment, David.” Patrick is so sure of this, deep into every last blood cell. He’s fairly vibrating with the exultant truth of it. “It’s a revelation. I only feel embarrassed that it took me this long to figure it out.”

“No. Don’t think that, Patrick. Every person gets to do this on their own timeline. There’s no age limit on personal discovery.”

“I bet you always knew.”

“Yes and no. There wasn’t really a word for what I am when I was growing up.”

“And what word is that?” Patrick asks, a little confused. He’s always just assumed that David was bisexual.

“I identify as pansexual,” David says. “For me, it’s more about the person than their sex or gender identity. I’m attracted to anyone I find intriguing or beautiful.”

“Lucky you lowered your standards for me then,” Patrick says with a self-deprecating laugh. 

“Oh, no,” David’s eyes are tender but his mouth is fiercely set. “Can’t you tell? I think you’re gorgeous, Patrick. You’re one of the only people I’ve met who I would say is beautiful both inside and out.”

“Oh,” Patrick whispers, the flush of pride and embarrassment is making his ears flame. He can feel the blush extending down his whole torso. “Thank you, David. That’s a....that’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.”

“Good.”

And they both smile idiotically at each other, each one thinking that if they had to rank their numbered mornings, this one might just be their favorite so far.

***

After David gives up on the crossword puzzle and after they get dressed (and okay, after they have a chaste but deeply satisfying make-out session), David looks at Patrick with something like realization.

“I was supposed to be showing you the beauty of New York, but I think we’ve seen more of this hotel room than the city.”

“I am 100% okay with that,” Patrick says with a laugh. 

“Sure, but I want you to get your money’s worth.”

Patrick glances down at his hands, unexpectedly bruised by David's reminder. “Oh, I have absolutely no complaints in that regard.” He hopes David can't hear the waver in his voice.

“But you said you hadn’t seen much of the city. So what haven’t you seen?”

Patrick finally looks up. “David, it would be easier to tell you what I have seen than what I haven’t. I told you I’ve only been here on business. I’ve basically only seen the Financial District, conference rooms, and hotel beds.”

“But you’ve been to Central Park, right?”

“Well, actually, no.”

“Times Square? The Empire State Building? Broadway? None of that?”

“None of that.”

“Patrick!”

“David!”

“We’re changing that right now. Let’s go.”

“Is this going to be another hike that’s not a hike?” Patrick teases.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that. But yes, you might want to wear those mountaineering shoes you seem to love so much. They look comfortable.”

Patrick assumed Central Park would be just like any other big city park, but it’s not; it’s like nowhere he’s ever been. He’s blown away by its vastness, its beauty, how you could never explore every inch of it even if you wanted to. He’s awed when David pulls him into a secluded copse of trees and crowds up into him to drop fluttering kisses into his jaw and neck and how he can’t see any skyscrapers peering through the branches to witness this and that he hears the sweet song of birds in his ears and not the cacophony of traffic, the discordant scrape of brakes on asphalt or the persistent bleat of car horns. He could almost forget that they’re in the middle of a city of nearly 10 million people, could almost forget this isn’t exactly where he belongs, kissing a magnificent man next to a red maple tree. 

They pull apart only when David’ stomach gives a traitorous rumble and Patrick smirks into his cheek and asks if he’s allowed to feed the wild animals. 

“This wild animal would like that very much, yes.”

“Anywhere you want.”

“I mean, it’s super touristy but Tavern on the Green is the classic Central Park choice.”

“Well, it just so happens that I’m a tourist looking for the complete New York experience. Let’s go.”

By some miracle, the restaurant is experiencing an uncharacteristic mid-afternoon lull and David and Patrick are quickly seated in the outdoor area. They order truffle mac and cheese and crab cakes and beer battered fish and chips and the food is rich and delicious but not too heavy. Patrick takes in David sitting across from him, wearing—what else—a black sweater with geometric shapes parading across his chest and a pair of white frame sunglasses looking otherworldly and serene in the dappled light of Central Park. A perfect morning now turned into a perfect late afternoon and Patrick can’t remember spending a single day with Rachel, even on one of their best days, that felt quite as perfect as this simple day with David. 

He doesn’t mean it to be a judgment of Rachel who was kind and caring and funny and who he still loves in the way you always adore your first love. But Patrick sees now how every day with her was effortful. Not because she was difficult, but because he was trying so hard to feel and say and do the right things that seemed to come so easily for everyone else but not to him. It’s effortless now, with David. Maybe it’s because David is a man or because David is a professional, but Patrick thinks it’s because it’s them, the perfect alchemy of two people with the right molecular chemistry to form a lasting covalent bond. 

And who is he to argue with science?

They’re just discussing whether to attempt the Empire State Building or brave Times Square next when Patrick’s work phone begins to ring. David sips his drink with feigned aloofness as he eavesdrops on Patrick’s call. It wouldn’t take a mind reader to know it’s bad news from the way Patrick’s face is pinched and lined. Patrick punches his phone dark when the call ends and turns to David with frustrated eyes. 

“I’m sorry, David. That was Todd. Raine Corp apparently has new numbers they want to give us and he wants me to head over there right now to begin work on it. I’ve got to go.”

David nods, but his eyes hold a sliver of irritation. “So that’s how it is for your job? They tell you to jump and you ask how high?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Patrick answers with a shrug. “I’m always on call. The hours are long. If there’s a deal to made, you make the deal.”

“And it doesn’t matter who you screw over in the process or how bad the deal is?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Not if there’s money to be made.”

“And you have no say in this?”

“Not yet. But with the promotion this deal would bring....then maybe.” 

David purses his lips and nods thoughtfully. 

“Another thing we have in common then,” David says ruefully, not meeting Patrick’s eyes anymore. “We both screw people for money.”

Patrick says nothing to that. He throws money onto the table to cover their bill, and heads to the street to hail a cab. But he thinks about what David said all the way back to the Financial District and all the way up to the 27th floor of the tall skyscraper building where Raine Corp have their headquarters and all the long hours he sculpts new understandings from the numbers, pressing at the thought like a scabbed over bruise, wondering why he never realized the truth of it, how he’s sold his mind and his soul for promises of wealth. But also how it hasn’t brought him any lasting happiness; just kept him too busy and distracted to truly appreciate his discontent or discover himself amid the spreadsheets.

***

By hour four, and realizing he’s nowhere close to being done, Patrick stretches and reaches for his phone. He’s heard nothing from David, but he can’t bear to leave things as they left them. He considers just sending a text, but doesn’t want to wait to patch things up; he needs to hear David’s voice.

The phone rings and rings and Patrick starts to catastrophize that David is ignoring him when he hears a low-voiced, scratchy “Hello?” in his ear.

“Oh David, I’m so sorry, did I wake you?” Patrick checks his watch. It’s only 8PM. He’s jealous. He should be tucked into David’s side right now instead of sitting here, blurry-eyed in front of his computer in an abandoned office building on a Sunday night. 

“No,” David clears his throat. “I most certainly did not doze off watching a movie. Didn’t happen.”

“Sure,” Patrick laughs, but it’s one of his laughs that only comes out with the shaking of his shoulders. “What movie?”

“Oh. Um. _Roman Holiday_.”

“The one with Audrey Hepburn? My mom loves that one.”

“Yeah. I’ve always had a thing for Gregory Peck.” Patrick remembers the tall, dark, and dashingly suave actor and thinks he can see some resemblance between him and David Rose. He’s starting to think he may have a type. 

“Look—”

“Patrick—”

They try to speak at the same time and both laugh nervously. 

“David, I’m sorry.”

“No, Patrick. I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know why I said what I said. I’m absolutely not in a position to judge you or what you do for a living.”

“I appreciate that, David. But I never want you to think that you can’t say exactly what you think around me.” Patrick inhales deeply and goes on. “So I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here. But can we talk? Later?”

“We can talk whenever you’d like. I’ll be here.” 

“Thank you, David.”

“Of course, Patrick.”

They hang up. Patrick returns to his fuzzy computer screen but now there’s a slight smile playing across his lips that won’t seem to go away no matter how hard he tries.

***

A bone deep weariness has settled into Patrick’s sinews as he finally packs up and leaves the Raine Corp’s offices near midnight and stumbles his way toward the hotel, sending an egregiously misspelled text to David to alert him of his imminent arrival. But he expects that David has already fallen asleep again.

He wishes more than anything that this deal was done and that he could spend his mornings wrapped up in David’s limbs and legs and arms, his afternoons strolling by his side in Central Park, his evenings tucked into corner booths, a bottle of wine and whispers between them. He does not think about how he will fly back to Canada when this deal is done, how he will never see him again, how he’s fooling himself that this is more to David, the way it’s more to him. The way it’s become everything to him. Patrick has never known what it feels like to have butterflies down to his toes, to miss a person when you’ve just left them, when they’re right there in front of you, to want them even more when they’re right next to you. He’s chased down a lot of deals in his life, but never suspected that this one would be the most elusive one of all. 

And suddenly he’s here, at the door, the door to his hotel room, and he finds there’s no strength left in his arms to push it open. He shoulders into the darkened room gracelessly, nearly tripping on the door jam, and his first thought is, _dammit, he’s gone to bed already._ But then he sees it, a pool of soft light and a pair of legs propped on the wide executive desk in the center of the room. And the legs lead to more, a body, and arms, and a head, dark hair titled to the side, matching the angled smirk on that impossible face. He’s absolutely, gloriously naked except for a black tie with white polka dots hanging like an olive branch around his graceful neck. 

Patrick staggers forward and realizes, no, not polka dots, small white flowers. Row after row of white roses bursting into bloom on a black background and Patrick thinks he’s never been more turned on in his life. He’s wide awake now.

“How was your day, dear?” David whispers softly, teasingly. 

Patrick drops his computer bag to the floor. “Nice tie,” he deadpans. 

David glances down like he’s only just remembered that he’s wearing nothing but 60 inches of silk around his neck. He looks up, taunts, “I got it for you. Would you like to try it on? See how it fits?”

Patrick is already slashing his own crumpled tie off his neck, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He crashes into David and careens to the floor with him, raking over every bit of skin his hands can reach, pulling closer and closer and closer until everything begins to fit into the spaces where they belong.

In the end, the new tie never makes it around Patrick’s own neck, but he knows it’ll fit perfectly, just like all the rest.

***

Patrick wakes up at 2AM in a cold sweat, swirling with emotions he can’t contain. David looks deeply asleep and completely peaceful as Patrick ghosts a hand over his slumbering face. He slowly disentangles himself and slides to the edge of the bed, trying his hardest not to disturb David. He pulls on sweats and a T-shirt and slips on some shoes. He needs some space to think. He doesn’t know where he’s headed or what he’s looking for, but he rides the elevator down to the lobby and wanders the halls until he finds a darkened conference room, devoid of people or chairs, with a beautiful black grand piano tucked in the corner. Patrick sits down at the keys and starts to pluck out some scales with one hand as his mind wanders.

When David appears about 45 minutes later, he’s wearing the hotel’s terry cloth robe over his pajamas and he looks deliciously mussed and rumpled in a way that makes Patrick’s heart seize up in fondness. David comes to stand opposite him, resting in elbows on the still closed lid of the piano, the instrument an ebony canyon between them.

“I woke up and you were gone. I called down to the front desk and they said they’d seen you wandering down here.” David says with a crooked, affectionate smile.

“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to wake you up. I just needed to think.”

“What are you thinking about?”

_You,_ Patrick screams in his head, but instead says, “Work, mostly.” 

“It’s a lot to think about. It’s a big deal. Literally. Like this deal is literally a big deal.”

Patrick gives David a half smile. “It is.” He picks out a simple tune on the piano, weighing the sounds in his mind before looking up at David again. “The numbers don’t add up.”

“What?”

“Raine Corp. Their numbers don’t add up. Something’s off. Something’s not right.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means that it’s probably a bad deal. But I have to be absolutely sure. I have to be absolutely right if I’m going to tell my bank to pass on potentially the biggest IPO of the year.”

“That’s a lot of pressure for one person.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And I’m a distraction and you need me to leave?”

“God, no.” Patrick practically shouts. “You’re the only thing making this bearable. You bring everything into focus, David.”

David tries to hide his smile. Patrick wishes he wouldn’t try to school his emotions so much when he’s so clearly terrible at it. He loves seeing the world on David’s face, like he’ll always know the right direction to go if he can just read the map of David’s face.

“I’ve also been thinking about what you said, about how we both screw people for money. And that made me think how maybe the person I’ve screwed over the most is myself.”

David is not used to such bold-faced honesty, Patrick knows, and he can read his trepidation in his eyes. Patrick barrels forward, wanting to get this out. “I’ve been working this job for a decade. A decade in which I’ve averaged 80-hour work weeks. I never get to finish a single vacation, I barely see my family. Hell, I never had a chance to stop and realize that I’m gay! What kind of life am I even living?” 

Patrick sighs as his hands still at the keys. He’s run out of notes to play. 

“Patrick.” But David can’t find the words to finish what he’s begun. 

“I don’t know, David. Maybe everything I’ve been working towards, maybe it isn’t worth it. Maybe there’s more to life than money.” Patrick searches David’s eyes for reassurance.

“Oh no. Money is very nice,” David says with a wistful smile, “It’s all true, what you hear about being rich. It’s fucking great.” 

Patrick’s lips turn up at the corners. “I get that, David. I get how hard it is to have something and then have it taken away. But do you think you can be happy without it? Without money?” 

David could tell Patrick the truth; could tell him how he’d found glimmers of happiness even in that desolate motel in Schitt’s Creek, could tell him how he’d found parts of himself he liked better there than the ones that lived in the city, purged from their diet of wealth and excess. He could say he missed his chance for happiness there or that he thought about going back all the time, but his pride was too bruised to endure that particular walk of shame. Or he could lie, blanketing Patrick with a false river of hope that the last ten years of his life chasing deal after deal was leading him to somewhere good. 

“I think _you_ can be happy without it, Patrick,” he whispers. “I think you’d be just fine without it.”

“But not you?” Patrick sounds almost bitter and defeated. 

David lifts one shoulder in a sardonic shrug, “Money plugged the gaping holes in the sinking ship that was my life. I still want that back.”

Patrick stares at David as if he’s only now seeing him in this new way, in this way that David sees himself. He speaks quietly, but with force. “I don’t think you’re a sinking ship, David.” 

David rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the warmth melting across his face. “Oh yeah? Then what am I?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, or at least not a serious one, but Patrick looks him straight in the eyes, in a way that David doesn’t think anyone ever has before, like he sees who he is behind the mask he wears and still finds him worthy. “You’re a life raft in the middle of the open sea. David, you’re the first real thing I’ve found in years. It feels like I’m not drowning anymore….when I’m with you.”

David clears his throat, horrified by the lump that is currently forming there. He grips the edge of the piano as if willing himself to stay still, to not turn and run away. 

“That’s...uh...that’s a very lovely thing to say.” David tries to look anywhere but at Patrick, desperate to change the topic. 

“David, I know this is ironic coming from me, but you shouldn’t have to sell yourself to gain what you once had. Especially if it’s not what you want. There are other ways. There are other ways to be happy, I think.”

David examines Patrick silently for a beat and then says, “I’m starting to believe that, Patrick.” 

“Good.” And Patrick gives him a tentative smile and doesn’t think he’s imagining the bubble of hope that has suddenly sprung up between them. 

“So,” David says, smoothing his hands over the glossy surface of the piano. “Can you actually play this thing?” 

“I can actually play this thing. I can sing too,” Patrick acknowledges, willing to let the conversation redirect. His fingers plink out the opening notes to a tune that sounds vaguely familiar to David. “You want a performance?”

“Oh,” David is visibly taken aback. “Are you sure you want to do that? What if you’re not very good and I have to pretend you are?”

Patrick just laughs and keeps playing, adding his left hand now. “Just trust me, David.”

And Patrick stares David right in the eyes, and opens his mouth. A buttery rich voice emerges and David’s face immediately transforms. 

_I call you when I need you, my heart's on fire_  
_ You come to me, come to me wild and wired_  
_ Oh, you come to me, give me everything I need_  
_Give me a life time of promises and a world of dreams_  
_Speak the language of love like you know what it means_  
_Mm, and it can't be wrong, take my heart and make it strong, babe_  
_You're simply the best, better than all the rest  
_ _Better than anyone, anyone I ever met. _

Patrick watches the expresses change on the open screen of David’s face. First pink-tinged embarrassment, next open-mouthed shock (at Patrick’s talent or the words? he wonders), then bursting orange flashes of want and desire, and finally a soft red of affection. Even in the dim light of the conference room, he can see that David’s eyes are misty and bright. The last notes are still echoing in the air as David swipes two hands under his eyes. 

“So you hated it then?” Patrick asks, trying to be playful even though his mouth is full of desire. 

“I love that song.”

“I know you do. You love your power divas.” And Patrick loves all the things he knows about David Rose; he’s been squirreling away each new fact like they’re prized acorns for the long winter ahead.

David detaches himself from his spot across the piano to move closer to Patrick. As soon as he’s in range, Patrick reaches out to grasp David’s wrists and draws him into the space between his knees trapping him between the thighs he knows David loves so much. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, and their desire stretches into something almost tangible, like you could wrap it around them. David slowly lowers his head to Patrick’s and licks at Patrick’s now parted lips. David accidentally sits on the piano keys, causing a shower of disagreeing notes and then there’s silence as he lowers his head once again with a crooked smile. The kisses are slow and tentative, just fluttery presses of skin to skin, across lips, cheekbones, eyelids. David presses one into the corner of Patrick’s upticked mouth and Patrick groans into it, eyes flying open. 

Patrick stands suddenly, taking David with him. He grasps onto David’s hips and in one powerful thrust, bodily moves David onto the closed lid of the grand piano. Even standing, Patrick is shorter than David, but he reaches up his hands to tangle into David’s hair and pulls his head down to meet his lips in a hungry crush. Patrick has never wanted anything more. 

“David,” Patrick whispers as his hands slip under David’s robe, scraping down David’s back. 

“As much as I love the thought of getting fucked on this piano, I think it might be time to move to our bed,” David finally rasps out. “I don’t trust us not to break it.”

_Our bed. _

It shouldn’t thrill Patrick the way it does, but “our bed” undoes him.

“Yes, David, please. Let’s go to our bed.”

And David steers him in the right direction, just like Patrick knew he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't intended to do the piano scene at first, but then Noah Reid went and performed “Simply the Best” [on the piano at Sawdust City Musical Festival](https://bashfulclam1994.tumblr.com/post/186737430848) in August 2019 and this scene just went and wrote itself. His performance was also the first place I noticed his hair had some red in it. It was probably just the lights, but I don’t care because it gave us David’s Prince Harry fantasies.


	7. life in my veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Fourth of July. David and Patrick have their last full day together which includes some fireworks, both figurative and literal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I decided to set the gallery opening on David’s birthday (which we know is July 2nd based on his PIN), I hadn’t worked out that I would also have to include the Fourth of July in this narrative. But that ended up giving an extra day to the boys so I guess God Bless America?

MONDAY

It's the longest elevator ride of Patrick's life.

Which is good because David has him pushed up against the elevator wall, one leg notched between his thighs, a hand cupping his jaw, lips fierce atop his own.

Patrick likes this very much.

But each passing moment that they're still on this interminable elevator means another second that they are not in their bed, another moment of being vertical and not horizontal, of being separated by layers of clothes.

Patrick is fairly vibrating out of his skin, so much so that he fumbles with his key card at the door and can't manage to swipe it just the right way for the door to unlock.

"Give it to me," David finally exclaims, plucking the card from Patrick's fingers. Patrick says nothing when it still takes David two tries to get it right. The green light finally appears, beckoning their way in.

They hurdle through the room to the bed, pajamas easily discarded across the floor as they go. But once they've found their way to each other on the bed, time seems to slow down and swirl around them like they're lovers reunited after years lost at sea.

"Patrick, I need you in me," David blurts out. It's the first time he's directly asked Patrick for anything so openly, typically preferring to follow Patrick's lead. "Only if you're ready," he amends. "Only if that's what you want too."

David does not need to say that their time is running out, that the opportunities to make this happen are dwindling fast. David does not need to say how much he wants this; it's plastered across his face and written in the urgent press of his fingers against Patrick's back. Patrick would give him the moon right now if he could. He'd give him anything he asked for.

"I want that too," Patrick says as pushes David into the pillows. He knows now exactly what David needs to be ready, knows all the right moves. It doesn't take long before they're both slicked and ready and Patrick is at the precipice of something great and new.

But then his hands start to shake.

David notices--he notices everything--and he reaches out to touch Patrick's hand, loosening his grip, sparking him with electricity just like he did with the chopsticks during their first meal together.

"Patrick, you're doing great," David whispers. "It's going to be fine."

Patrick hums in his throat. "I don't know why I'm suddenly so nervous. I just want it to be good for you."

David cracks a small but pleased smile. "Did you like it when I did it to you? Even though it was new and hurt just a little?"

"God, yes."

"It's just the same. And you won't hurt me, Patrick." David looks him in the eye. "I promise it's going to be good for me too."

"Okay," Patrick concedes and he leans down to chase David's assurances with a long kiss. He steadies himself and with an encouraging nod from David, he finds his entrance and lowers himself in and in and in.

"Fuck, David," escapes from Patrick's lips. He feels everything everywhere, every nerve ending alight like a sparkler. "Is this okay?"

"It's better than okay, Patrick. When you're ready, just set your rhythm. I'll keep up." And David reaches out to grasp onto Patrick's hip the way he's learned that Patrick likes.

It's everything Patrick could have hoped for, this moment with David. He doesn't last long, but doesn't feel embarrassed by it. He helps David finish with rock steady hands and cleans him up afterward with his trademark attention to detail. He nuzzles into David's neck, sleep tugging at the corners of his consciousness. "Was it good for you, David?"

"Mm. So good," David sighs and snuggles in even closer to Patrick. “I always knew it would be.” And Patrick detects the impossible truth of it. 

So yes. Patrick would lasso the moon for David if he asked. Maybe that would change the tides, calm the waves, and keep them both safe at harbor for a little while longer.

***

Even though Monday is the Fourth of July—a holiday that doesn’t mean a great deal to a Canadian like Patrick—he’s still pretty miffed that he finds himself yet again the sole proprietor of an uncomfortable seat in the Raine’s headquarters, trying to nail down this deal while everyone else around him celebrates and relaxes. He’d lingered in their warm bed as long as he could that morning, recovering from a late night full of confessions and sex and he wants nothing more than to return to David’s side where he feels most whole. It’s their last full day together, Patrick realizes with regret, and the thought makes him feel gutted with anguish. He loves his job for being the catalyst for bringing David into his life; he hates his job for being the force that is now keeping them apart.

Patrick picks up his phone, desperately needing to hear David’s voice, if only through text message. 

**Patrick:** I'm in hell. This is literally hell.

**David:** Going well then? 

**Patrick:** I am an Excel ninja but I want to throw my laptop out the window right now. 

**David:** So it’s not going well then. 

**Patrick:** Very much no. 

**David:** I’m sorry, honey. 

Patrick stares at the word honey, feeling like something sticky and sweet is coursing through his capillaries right now. He’s not a pet name type person—and he assumes David isn’t really either—but there’s something about that word honey that’s currently melting his insides into goo. 

**David:** You wanna know what I’m wearing right now?

**Patrick:** Now you’re just torturing me. 

**David:** Yes.  
How am I doing?  
Do you miss me?  
…  
Ignore that last one. 

**Patrick:** You are great at torturing me, I like it very much. And no, I will not ignore it. I miss you too. 

**David **:OK.  
Good.  
That’s good.

**Patrick:** I’m so sorry to miss out on fireworks with you. 

**David:** I don’t know. I thought we made some spectacular fireworks this morning.

**Patrick:** I walked right into that one, didn’t I?

**David:** Yes, you did.  
And it’s okay.  
About the fireworks.  
The real fireworks, not the figurative ones.  
I would not say no to more figurative fireworks.

**Patrick:** I just assumed you’d love fireworks, the literal ones. And barbecues. 

**David:** I do love literal fireworks and barbecues. But if I’m honest, the Fourth of July has never been my favorite. 

**Patrick:** Afraid it steals the spotlight from your birthday?

**David:** That makes me sound very shallow and I do not appreciate what you are insinuating.  
But yes, that is correct. 

**Patrick:** *laugh crying emoji*

**David:** But there’s something I didn’t tell you. 

**Patrick:** Oh?

**David:** You remember that town I told you about? Where my family lives now?

**Patrick:** Of course. Schittsville.

**David:** Schitt’s Creek. 

**Patrick:** Oh, right. Sorry.

**David:** Well, it’s…uh…actually in Canada?

**Patrick:** Is that a question? Do you not understand how geography works? Generally, a town is in one fixed location.

**David:** Yes, I am well aware of how geography works having traveled around the world extensively.  
Unlike some people.

**Patrick:** Hey. I have traveled internationally. I’m technically in a foreign country right now. But is this your way of telling me that you’re actually Canadian too? 

**David:** I’m a delightful half/half situation. I actually have dual citizenship.  
So yes, it would not be 100% inaccurate to say that I am Canadian too. 

**Patrick:** I’m going to need you to prove it. 

**David:** Like seeing my passport? Because you should know that the lighting in my photo does not convey my effervescent personality. 

**Patrick:** No, like I’m going to need you to sing “O, Canada” for me sometime. 

**David:** That’s a real quick no. 

**Patrick:** David. 

**David:** Patrick.

**Patrick:** I am sorry to the 50% of you that’s American for missing out tonight. I’m trying to work as fast as I can. 

**David:** It’s okay, Patrick. I understand. And the 50% of me that’s not American is just as happy to have some time to catch up on my Netflix queue. 

**Patrick:** Glad you’re surviving without me.  
And David?

**David:** Yes, Patrick?

**Patrick:** I like all the things we have in common. 

**David:** Me too. Well, good luck.  
Come back to me soon. 

**Patrick:** Always. 

It’s a promise he intends to keep. He turns back to his computer and makes a decision that he should have made awhile ago, one that is going to change everything. 

***

The sun is thankfully still in the sky when Patrick finishes his work and he texts David that he’ll meet him in the lobby of the hotel. He’s suddenly grateful for these long summer nights that give the illusion of more time. Patrick wants to wring every last second out of the hours they’ve been allotted. And maybe they’ll even get to see some fireworks, both literal and figurative.

Patrick is still somewhat surprised to see the lobby of the Four Seasons packed with people despite the holiday festivities. He probably should have given David a more specific place to meet up. He wanders the space, hoping he’ll see David, but instead, he bumps into Todd, freshly arrived from Toronto for tomorrow’s meeting, looking harangued and murderous. 

Patrick briefly considers trying to disappear back into the crowd without acknowledging Todd, but squares his shoulders and nods his head to him when their eyes meet. 

“Ah, Patrick,” Todd sneers in that condescending tone of his. “Good. Where are we on the Raine valuation?”

_We?_ Patrick thinks, but decides not to say anything. Patrick needs to tell Todd what he’s discovered about Raine Corp’s financial reality. He clears his throat. “Yes. We need to talk about that. I’ve really been able to dig into their financials, and I’m not sure you’re going to like what I’ve uncovered.” 

“You better not screw this up for me, Brewer,” Todd spits out venomously. “I’m expecting a very large bonus and a promotion from this deal. We’re going to make it happen no matter what.” 

“It’s a bad deal,” Patrick says baldly. 

“Do I look like I care?” Todd counters, the vein in his neck starting to beat ominously. “We can just turn around and sell it to the next sucker.”

“If you’d just let me show you—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Todd interrupts with a glare and Patrick sees David picking his way through the crowd toward them. Holy shit, how had Patrick missed him before? David is something beyond striking, dressed all in black as usual with one massive white lightning bolt zig-zagging across his chest. Patrick feels electrified and thinks David should come with a danger: high voltage sign. He approaches cautiously, eyes uncertain, but Patrick tries to give him a somewhat reassuring, apologetic smile. 

“Unbelievable,” Todd spits out. “I get shipped back to Toronto while you live it up with a high-end escort on the company’s dime.” Todd scoffs. But it sounds more like he’s jealous than anything else. 

“That’s not true,” Patrick says, defensive. He’s always bristled at being called a liar when he’s a natural rule follower. “I spoke to the travel office and requested a friend be allowed to stay with me in my suite. They okayed it because it didn’t change the rate and they’re already paying for me to stay here. All room service is being charged directly to me, not to my corporate card. The company has paid for nothing extra.” 

David has stilled beside Patrick. Patrick’s eyes are trained on Todd’s face, but he can feel David’s eyes on him. He never told David that he had alerted both the investment bank and the hotel that he had someone staying with him, that he’d made sure everything was above the board where his job was concerned. Todd had no leg to stand on. Patrick wants to gloat just a little, but tries to hide it. 

“And how am I supposed to trust your judgment on this deal when you’ve so obviously been distracted by your ‘friend’ here.” Todd sputters, still incensed. 

“Oh, he’s been working very hard, I can assure you of that,” David interjects, clearly wanting to defend Patrick’s honor or work ethic or something. Patrick is unreasonably touched, but as soon as Todd opens his mouth, Patrick knows it’s going to be bad.

“Oh, can you?” Todd turns on David, an ominous grin painted on his face. “Been with him the whole week, have you? I’m sure that’s a bit boring. Wouldn’t think he’s that interesting in bed for someone like you.”

David straightens up, and glares at Todd, “I’ll have you know he’s the best I’ve ever had.”

“Really?” Todd scoffs. “And what does his girlfriend say about that?” Todd turns to Patrick, a triumphant tilt to his head, “What was her name again, Pat? Rebecca?” He snaps his fingers together. “Rachel.”

Patrick feels all the color drain from his face, but he wills himself not to give Todd the satisfaction of seeing him panic. He hopes that David isn’t spiraling right now, thinking that Patrick has lied to him all along. 

“Rachel is not my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what you told me last week.”

“Girlfriend,” David whispers and then he’s turning on his heel and disappearing back into the crowd. 

Patrick wants to chase after him, but he turns to Todd, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’ve done. I’ve removed a distraction that has been preventing you from making this deal happen.” And now Todd grins like he’s never enjoyed himself more. “Make this deal happen.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we, Todd.” And then Patrick is pushing his way through the crowd, to find the only thing that matters to him now—not the promise of money and status, not the job he’s poured his heart and soul into for the past 10 years, not any of the things he thought he wanted. Now the only thing that matters is David. 

***

“David!” Patrick calls and by sheer luck (and David’s relative height and striking sense of fashion), Patrick sees him jabbing an impatient finger at the bank of elevators. He’s able to catch up to him just as the elevator doors slide open and Patrick hops in next to David.

Their elevators rides have usually involved flirtatious banter before embarking on an outing together or swirling tendrils of heat and desire as they’ve made their way back to their bed and each other. Patrick can’t bear to mar those memories with accusations or tears. He can’t ruin elevators for David. So he says nothing even though they’re alone. 

Patrick was wrong. _This_ is the longest elevator ride of his life.

On their floor, David silently pulls out his key card and lets them into their room. He looks dazed and starts to move toward the closet as if he’s going to pack. 

“David,” Patrick finally says, and it’s a voice filled with desperation and pleading. “David there is no girlfriend. And definitely not one since before you and me.” 

David turns to face Patrick and Patrick has never seen such heartbreak in someone else’s eyes. He feels torn in two, heart cleaved clean in half. How can he explain what Rachel was to him without comparing what David is to him now? How can he convince David to stay when telling him how much he feels for him will simply send him running away even faster? 

“Then why did Todd think there was?”

Patrick rubs the back of his head. “Because I did tell him that I had a girlfriend. I was trying to get out of bringing someone to the Raine Gala and I thought a girlfriend back in Toronto would do the trick. But they still insisted I bring someone. Now I'm glad they did because that’s what led me to you.”

“I’m going to need you to back up. Who’s Rachel then?”

Patrick sighs and sits on the edge of the bed to gather his thoughts. The truth then, or as much as the truth as he can manage without spooking David. 

“Rachel was my girlfriend. For a long time. We got together in high school and we’ve been on and off ever since. We always just sorta fell back into it if we’d been apart for too long. Break up and get back together. Our parents were pushing for an engagement. I even went ring shopping one afternoon and I had what I think was my first panic attack.”

“Panic attacks are just PR spin for celebrity publicists,” but David says it with a wistful smile, like he’s had personal experience with that burning, suffocating feeling that leaves you gasping for breath and itchy all over. Patrick hopes to never experience anything like it again. 

“Well, whatever it was, it was awful. As much as I loved Rachel—and I did love her—I finally realized that it wasn’t the kind of love that you need in order to marry someone. So I broke it off with her. Again. For good.”

“How long ago was that?” David asks, like he simply has to, like it’s programmed into his DNA to ask the questions that will cause him the most personal harm. 

“Three months ago.”

“So three months ago, you broke up with a woman you’ve been with—”

“On and off.”

“—been with on and off with since high school?” 

“Yes.”

“And is she your only....”

“No, David. She’s not the only person I’ve been with besides you. I dated other women—slept with other women—during the periods when we were broken up.” 

“Okay.”

“It didn’t exactly work much better with them either. But I really, really tried with Rachel. I really tried to make it work, but it just never felt right and now I finally understand why. Rachel deserved more than what I could give her.”

“You really don’t owe me an explanation, Patrick. This isn’t real, this relationship. It’s all pretend. I have no claim over you.”

Patrick is gutted. “Don’t you?” he asks, breathless. “It’s felt pretty real to me. I never knew what right was supposed to feel like until you, David. You make me feel all the things I’m supposed to feel.”

David’s eyes are bright and shiny, but he still looks like he wants to run away.

Patrick doesn’t know how to ask the question he desperately wants to ask David. He tries though. “You deserve more too, David. What is it that you want?”

David tilts his head, considering. Shrugs and then smiles lightly. “I want the fairy tale.” But he says it like he knows it’s a pipe dream, like he knows there’s no fairy godmother out there for him. 

Patrick frowns. Of course David would say that, with his love for romantic comedies and romantic gestures. God, what Patrick wouldn’t give to be David’s fairy tale, his happily ever after. He asks the only question he can. 

“Will you stay? Please?” 

“I’ll stay.” David takes a shuddery breath. “I do believe I was promised dinner and literal fireworks.” 

David lets Patrick take his hand and lead the way out their room. But the elevator ride back down to the lobby is the third longest of both their lives. 

***

The Four Seasons allows its guests to view the Fourth of July fireworks from its rooftop. From this vantage point, they can see the new World Trade tower and the fireworks being launched from both the Brooklyn Bridge to the east and Exchange Place to the west in New Jersey. Night has finally fallen and they’ve managed to secure a semi-secluded spot on the terrace. Patrick is trying to memorize everything about David with every stolen glance and surreptitious touch.

David is looking heavenward, waiting with bated breath for the sky to be lit up with fire, and Patrick can’t contain the question that has been burning inside him since their run-in with Todd. 

“Was it true,” he finally blurts out, “what you said to Todd earlier. About....um....about me being the best you’ve ever had?” And Patrick thinks whatever fireworks they’re about to see, they can’t be redder or hotter than his face right now. 

David looks at Patrick, trying to bite down the grin that’s threatening to overwhelm his face. “You didn’t forget that part, did you?”

“Did you want me to?” Patrick asks, feeling the air deflate out of him. He knew it was too good to be true. How could it possibly be right when Patrick was so new to this? When David had had to guide him nearly every step of the way? “I’d believe you. If you said it wasn’t true.” Patrick feels smaller now under the unrelenting New York sky. “It was still a nice thing to say in front of Todd.”

“Oh, Patrick.” And David is looking at him with the brownest eyes, warm and comforting. “I’ve been with a lot of people.”

Patrick looks away and drops his head, cheeks tingling with the aftershocks of shame. “Yes, I know.”

“And not one of them has made me feel the way you make me feel.” 

His head snaps up at that. 

“Not one of them has bothered to learn the things I like, to ask me what I want. They mostly take and I give, but Patrick, you give. You may not be as experienced or smooth, but I didn’t lie. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

The world explodes with a bang, radiant light showering all around them, and Patrick looks skyward just to make sure it’s a real firework and not his heart rocketing through the atmosphere. 

***

“I’m thinking about moving here,” Patrick says that night out of nowhere back in their room after the firework show, catching David unawares. He’s been thinking about it for days, but is only ready to give voice to the idea now, now that he knows he lives in a world where David Rose exists. “I could get a job at Goldman Sachs. Their recruiters have been after me for years.”

“Huh,” David says, the most inarticulate Patrick has ever heard him. 

“For better or worse, this deal with be done after tomorrow. I’ll quit my job, and be back here in a month, maybe six weeks tops.”

“And you want that? To live here? I thought you said Goldman Sachs was—and I quote—“the root of all evil’. I thought you didn’t even want to do investment banking anymore.”

“Yes, I did say that. I’ll probably hate working there. But it’ll be worth it.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“For you.” 

“For me?” David is incredulous, his voice lilting into higher octaves.

“Yes, David,” Patrick replies patiently, “I want to be with you. For real. Let’s do this for real.”

“And I’ll just be what? Your kept man? Your gay little secret?”

“No,” Patrick interjects quickly, “You’d be my boyfriend. Maybe you could get another job in a gallery. I can help support you, if you need to start at the bottom, work your way back up, for real this time. Art is obviously your passion, David. You should get to have that again without your parent’s interference. You shouldn’t have to sell yourself. I mean....if you don’t want to anymore.” He finishes lamely.

David mouth hangs slightly open, his elbow bent, fist clenched by his face. He looks dumbfounded, perplexed. He drops his arm suddenly, swinging his hand to his hip, and looks away from Patrick’s earnest face with a guttural groan.

“You should want more for yourself than me,” he finally manages.

“Why’s that?” Patrick knows exactly what he wants now and has grown accustomed to getting it. He’s not going to let David deter him from this. Not now. He wants him too much for sense and reason and logic. 

“Because no one has ever wanted to stay. With me. I’m…I’m damaged goods.”

“That’s not true.”

“I kind of am though. I’d been with a lot of people even before I started getting paid to do it. Like a lot of people.”

“David, that’s—”

“And the grand total of people who wanted to stay is zero. And that kind of thing messes you up.” David says bitterly. “I want to trust you, Patrick, I do. You are probably the most trustworthy person I’ve met in my whole life and I still can’t let myself trust you.”

“David,” Patrick doesn’t know anything he could say right now to talk David down from this ledge. And Patrick doesn’t even blame him. David has been horribly mistreated by all the people he’s let in his life. He simply has no concept of a world in which he’s worth the effort. 

David reads Patrick’s silence as tacit agreement. “See? Damaged goods. You won’t stay. They never stay. So.”

Patrick hates the way David says so, hates how David wields it like a shield to block Patrick’s advance, says it like it’s the end of this discussion. The end of everything. 

“David, you’re wrong. I can’t imagine ever not wanting you.”

David shakes his head morosely. “You ever notice how someone can say ten nice things about you and you don’t believe it? But they say one bad thing and that’s the one you believe? I guess it’s easier to believe the bad than the good.”

“Give me a chance.”

“It’s just that no one has ever thought of me as precious cargo before. Or whatever.”

Patrick tries to not smile. “Well, now I think we’re mixing our metaphors just a tad.”

“You know what I mean. I’m not that special.”

“Huh. Not that special,” Patrick repeats with a shake of his head. Then he grins with the remembrance of something that’s going to make David want to evaporate from the sappiness of it, but he’s just going to go for it. “Do you know what David means?”

David pauses, his mouth agape in shock at the unexpected direction, the teasing way Patrick’s mouth is curling up. 

“What?”

“Your name. David. Do you know its meaning?”

“I don’t know. Annoyingly handsome?”

“Accurate, but no. It means beloved in Hebrew. David, the beloved.”

"That's a bit of stretch...don't you think?" But David has to say it around a smile.

“It means, David, that you are precious, if not to all those other idiots then you are to me.” Patrick quirks up one corner of his mouth as he steps closer. “And don’t worry. I’ll handle you with care.”

And he kisses David now, the word _beloved_ a whisper against their parted lips. 

***

That night, they don’t have wild hot sex or giddy blow jobs, they make love. Patrick thinks there’s no better description of it. It’s slow and achingly tender and perfect. It starts with a slow but thorough exploration of their bodies and their bodies in relation to each other, chest to chest, leg to leg, hand to hand. It ends with Patrick sinking into David, supported on shaking elbows, forearms flanking David’s head, his hands cupping David’s face as he drills his eyes into David’s, willing the bond between them to fasten more securely around them with every thrust and every kiss. David curls a strong but gentle hand around Patrick’s bicep and whispers “harder” against his ear. Patrick wraps a desperate hand around David’s cock, pumps up as he plunges deeper into David and then they’re both coming at the same time with the same coursing strand of euphoria settling deep into their diaphragms. 

There are no words or conversation as they clean themselves up or as they meld themselves back together as one fused whole tangled up together in the center of the bed. They drift into sleep slowly and then, all at once, they’re both asleep, with no way to tell where one begins and the other ends.


	8. it must have been love (but it's over now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick takes care of business, both professionally and personally.

TUESDAY

Patrick wakes early that morning as if his brain doesn’t want him to miss another waking moment with David. David is soundly sleeping, his brow smooth and mouth sweet, as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world. Patrick isn’t sure how he’s going to sleep in a bed without David in it anymore. But if it all goes as planned, he won’t have to worry about that for too long. He’s dreading the meeting this morning, but one more look at David and his body fills with resolve. David has probably slept long enough; he leans down to kiss him and if it just so happens to wake him up and it just so happens to lead to more, then Patrick guesses he can live with the consequences.

***

David is straightening Patrick’s tie for the third time; he appears even more nervous than Patrick feels. They don’t talk about how there’s a plane ticket with Patrick’s name on it, carrying with it the specter of imminent good-byes. They don’t mention a future now filled with the possibility of never seeing each other again. Patrick offered him the chance for something real last night, but nothing has been resolved. He doesn’t miss the fact that David hasn’t said yes. He doesn't miss the fact that he hasn’t said no.

“Good luck, Patrick,” David says, tucking Patrick's collar into place. “I hope all goes well with this IPO.”

Patrick exhales a shaky breath that ends with a laugh. “Hey. You got it right finally.”

“It’s been known to happen from time to time.” David is smiling, but it's not quite reaching his eyes. 

“I’ll see you after the meeting? There are more things to say...before I go.” Patrick tries to power through the question without faltering. He thinks he may have just managed it. 

David nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Patrick kisses him once, twice, three times for luck and then turns to go. He’s got a few things to do before this meeting with Edward Raine.

***

Patrick is ushered into an executive conference room upon arriving at Raine Corp’s headquarters. It’s a much fancier room than the one he’d been consigned to during his long working hours, ringed with built-in shelves and richly paneled walls. Todd is already sitting at the wide conference table, shoulders squared, eyes glowering. Patrick finds he doesn’t care at all about Todd Phillips. He doesn’t care about any of this. He’s already ready for this to be done.

Edward Raine sweeps in with an entourage of assistants and advisors. He’s impeccably dressed as usual, but Patrick can now see the traces of Sebastien’s arrogant face on his father's and finds that his stomach turns at the sight of him. 

“All right,” Mr. Raine says, perfectly controlled and in command. “Let’s hear your verdict. What’s the target range for this stock offering?”

Todd clears his throat and gestures to the PowerPoint presentation he’s already queued up.

“We definitely want to come in at an aggressive price point. Raine Incorporated is a well-known and well-respected name that has been around for generations. We want people to feel they’re buying a legacy, not just any common stock now that it’s going public.” 

Edward nods his head, visibly hooked by Todd’s eloquent introduction. It would sound really good, Patrick thinks, if it were true.

“We’re targeting the $50 range for each share. That’s a little above market share for similar public companies, but again, we want to be aggressive. Everyone thought Facebook was insane for starting their IPO at $38 in 2012 and they’re at $180 per share now.”

“I like your approach,” Edward says with obvious satisfaction. “I knew I was right to pick your bank. Tell me, what’s your overall valuation of Raine Incorporated right now?” 

Todd nods and clicks to the next slide. “At this share price, we would value Raine Corp at $15 billion—”

“Wrong.” 

All eyes turn to focus on Patrick. He inhales deeply. 

“That valuation is based on falsified data. Mr. Raine, this IPO is a sham and you know it. Your company’s broke and you're trying to bail out before that becomes public knowledge."

"You’re mistaken,” Edward replies breezily, but his eyes narrow nonetheless. “Raine Corp is a thriving business and always has been, ever since my grandfather founded the company in 1926."

"Oh, it's all very carefully concealed. It'd be easy to miss or overlook, especially if you're more interested in lining your own pocket," Patrick looks pointedly at Todd. "It's subtle, your slow siphoning off of assets. No one would realize that you're only trying to sell the shell of a company that's actually worth very little," Patrick turns to face Edward Raine straight on. "Whoever does your financials is smart. But I'm smarter."

Edward's handsome face is lined with fury, his eyes burrowing into Patrick's with loathing. Before David, Patrick might have been cowed by that look from someone who, despite his malfeasance, was still powerful and well-connected. But because of David, he now knows that losing everything isn't the worst thing that can happen to you, that there is always a way forward if the will and the heart is there. 

Patrick doesn't like the Raines' prospects in that regard, but he can live with that. He doesn't feel sorry for them.

Todd puts on his smarmiest smile and attempts to run damage control, as if it's not too late. "Edward, I'm sure we can still salvage this deal. Patrick is not acting in the best interests of you or our bank. He'is still under certain obligations as an employee of the bank--"

"Wrong again," Patrick says. His voice is low, but everyone's attention is immediately on him again. He's suffused with a wild confidence that never would have been there had it not been for David, if not for the glimmer of a different life. 

"I reported Raine Incorporated to the SEC this morning. They were very interested in what I'd discovered about your business practices and your attempt to go through with this deal given the true state of your financials. I’ve printed you out a copy of my report to them including a certified mail receipt of its delivery and acceptance this morning. And this,” Patrick produces another sheet of paper, “is my resignation, effective immediately, stating that I am no longer an employee of the bank and therefore have no fiduciary duty to them or Raine Incorporated.”

Todd, for once, is speechless. The Raine Corp employees look at each other with baffled and concerned expressions (Patrick does feel sorry for them; they probably had no idea), but Edward Raine is livid and red. 

"This will ruin me.”

“Yes,” Patrick says simply. 

"Patrick, what have you done?” Todd finally spits out through gritted teeth. 

“I just took your advice, Todd.” There’s a hard edge to Patrick’s normally calm and measured voice. “I lived a little.”

Todd scoffs. 

“Turns out, this isn’t the life I want at all. I don’t want to help dishonest businessmen or greedy bankers get even richer. I don’t want to work myself to the bone for promises of wealth I can’t use because I’m too busy too enjoy it. I want a real life. And I want to spend it with someone I love. So you can start dealing with this shit for once, Todd, because I'm done.” 

Patrick begins to pack up his things. The phone and computer belong to the bank; he'll have to drop them off when he returns to Toronto. That's going to be a fun conversation. When his bag is packed, Patrick slings it over his shoulder, and then turns back to Edward Raine, one final thing left to say. 

"When you see Sebastien next, Mr. Raine, tell him to leave David Rose and his family alone. He'll know what that means. If not, I’ll come after him too. Though I suspect I've already done enough damage since you're the one probably bankrolling his artistic career. He's really not _that_ good of a photographer. Have a nice day.”

Patrick leaves without a backward glance. 

*** 

Patrick bursts into the hotel room, desperately ecstatic to tell David everything, but the room is dark and eerily silent. David is gone. Not just gone; erased. His clothes are missing from the closet where they had hung next to Patrick’s, his dizzying array of toiletries vanished, leaving a bare countertop behind. Patrick’s deodorant and toothbrush look bereft without the company of David’s fifteen different bottles of skincare products.

In the center of the table, Patrick finds the black and white photograph of David in all his bewildering glory waiting for him, a note written on a piece of hotel stationary: _“I’m sorry. You deserve more. xo”_

***

Patrick tears the room apart, looking for a hidden note, a message, anything that David else might have left behind. He finds nothing. Not a single trace of him. Even the pillows have betrayed him; he can't smell David's scent on any of them anymore.

He forces himself down to the front desk, searching for a concierge that looks familiar, that might have seen David leave. 

One woman sees Patrick approach and hurriedly looks away, so that’s who he marches up to, desperation making him bold. “Hi. Did the man staying in room 1205 leave me a message by any chance? Name's Patrick Brewer.” 

“No,” she shakes her head, but her eyes betray her. She knows something. 

“You know who I’m talking about though, right? Tall, dark, devastatingly handsome, endless collection of black and white sweaters?”

“I know who you’re talking about,” she confirms. "He left about an hour ago."

“Look, you wouldn’t just happen to have seen him leaving the hotel with all his bags and just happen to have offered him the use of a hotel limousine whose driver could just happen to take me to where he lives since he remembers exactly where it is, do you?”

“Sir, this is 2018. He probably just took an Uber.” 

“Right. No, you’re right. Thanks anyway.” Patrick turns to go, a little bit wrecked, a little closer to the brink of defeat.

***

Patrick paces the hotel room floor. He's sent David multiple texts and voicemails, but has gotten zero response to all of them. Maybe he should respect his wishes and leave him alone. But maybe that’s not what David wants at all. Maybe this is all a test and he actually wants Patrick to find him. Patrick needs to see him. Just one more time. Just to say a proper good-bye; this can’t be how they leave things. He knows that if he contacts Ward and Associates—would they have a customer service line? he wonders—they would never divulge David’s personal information. Patrick doesn’t blame them.

What else does he know about David Rose? Just a town called Schitt’s Creek and a roadside motel. It’s surprisingly easy to find. David didn’t lie about that. It’s a small blip of a place and there’s only one motel anywhere near its vicinity. That has to be it, has to be the place his family still lives. Patrick can’t stop himself from wincing when he sees the images from Google Earth. He’s now surprised that David lasted a week there, much less a year. 

He dials the number to the motel and prays that someone answers, that the Roses are there, and that he can convince them to give him, a stranger, David’s address…if they even know it. This was a fool’s errand, Patrick thinks, and he’s just about to hang up the phone in resignation when a droll female voice barks, “Schitt’s Creek Motel. This is Stevie.” 

Wait. David’s friend Stevie? She works at the motel? 

“Stevie? As in David’s Stevie?” Patrick says it out loud before he can even stop himself.

“Excuse you. I belong to no one,” she huffs, but she also doesn’t hang up. 

“No, of course. Sorry. I’m a friend of David’s. David Rose.” His voice almost cracks on the word friend but he miraculously keeps it together. 

“You’re Patrick.” It’s not a question. 

“David told you about me?” Patrick is equal parts touched and terrified. If David mentioned him to Stevie then Patrick meant more to David then he let on. On the flip side, he could have just warned Stevie that a crazy stalker was after him and Patrick would be left with all dead ends and no David. 

“Yes.”

“Was it good or bad?” Patrick ventures. 

“He loves you.”

Patrick stills, his heart is too big for his body, maybe too big for this room. It feels too tight to breathe. “He said that?”

“Of course not. He’s too stupid to realize it.”

“Oh.”

“And you love him.” 

Again, not a question but Patrick still answers. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.”

“Stevie, I need to find him. To tell him….all that.” Now his voice does break, just a little. 

Patrick waits and wills himself not to cry. He can tell Stevie would think less of him for it. 

“Stevie, will you give me David’s address? Please?”

There is a long pause. Dread starts to trickle through his whole body; his heart is galloping, his forehead dampening with sweat. He braces himself for the worst and then: “Do you have a pen?”

He jots down the address, already pulling it up on Maps so he can chart the fastest course to David. 

“Thank you, Stevie!”

“Best wishes to you.” She hangs up, but Patrick is already racing out the door.

***

The address Stevie gives Patrick leads him to a brick five-floor walk-up on a narrow one-way street in Chinatown. The bottom floor of the building is an Asian market with red lanterns hanging from a blue awning, whole fish packed on beds of ice, staring at nothing through glassy orbs. The building itself is historic, adorned with rounded windows and decorative plaster molding across the stringcourses, the rusting fire escape a zig-zag scar across its austere face. The street is packed with restaurants and businesses all emblazoned with Chinese signs, forming a tunnel of vibrant color. Patrick can hardly believe a man who exists only in black and white would live in such an exuberant, colorful neighborhood. He can’t imagine David living here. He can’t imagine him anywhere else.

Patrick is suddenly hit by a wave of déjà vu like he’s been here before. And then he recognizes the dim sum place David had taken him to their first day together after shopping at Bloomingdale’s, just kitty-corner to David’s apartment. Patrick wants to cry. He wants to laugh. _I love that this city lets me travel the world without even leaving the island,_ David had said. It feels like a confirmation that David has wanted Patrick all along, dropping hints all along the way that sing out: _here I am, pick me._

Patrick gulps in all the air he can and marches toward the non-descript gray door that is the next hurdle back to David’s arms. Patrick pushes the buzzer for apartment 4B and waits. He pushes again. Still nothing. He holds it longer with each successive push, willing David to be home, to answer, to come out and say, _what took you so long?_ before crushing Patrick against his broad chest. 

The shrill consonants of the buzzer fade away and Patrick is left as he began, wrecked and alone. His head sags against the wall, flecked and fading paint chips pooling at his feet. _Fuck it,_ Patrick thinks as he pushes himself away from the closed door and incompetent buzzer and strides into the street, ignoring honks and the stares of passerbys. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts David’s name at the top of his lungs. 

He knows it’s absolutely, 100% pointless. He knows David, ensconced in his fourth floor apartment, can’t hear his desperate shouts above the dim hum of the city streets. He moves to step back into the sidewalk, when he hears the window on the fourth floor creak open, and a dark, expertly coiffed head emerge. 

“Patrick?” 

“David!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you!”

“You’re crazy.” 

“I know. I’m coming up.”

And like some goddamn hero, Patrick jumps into the air and catches the bottom rung of the fire escape, maneuvering it down so he can begin his ascent up the rickety wrought iron bars. He’s never been afraid of heights before, but he's radiating with so much adrenaline that it feels like the climb takes a decade, all while David silently watches him with ravenous eyes. 

“You didn’t answer the buzzer or your phone,” Patrick explains when he finally breaks through to David’s floor and can finally look him in the eye again.

“I was sleeping.” 

And now that he says it, Patrick can see that David’s hair is adorably askew, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes ringed with red. Maybe from tiredness, but maybe also from tears. Patrick can’t stop his hands from reaching out to cup David’s pillow-lined cheek, bushing a callused thumb across the impossibly soft bow of David’s lips. 

“You left.” The words are torn from Patrick before he can even stop himself. “You should have at least let me pay you.”

“You know it was never about the money,” David whispers, eyes shattered and mouth trembling. 

Patrick feels his own eyes prick with tears and he clears his throat to whisper back, “You know I’m not just here to pay a debt.”

“Then what are you here for?” But David’s looking at Patrick like he’s the sun and he’s been starved for warmth. 

Patrick’s heart thuds against his ribcage. It’s now or never. “You. I’m here for you. Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t ever leave me again.”

David’s eyes fill instantly with regret. “I won’t. But in my defense, I never said I was smart. Just really fucking pretty.” 

Patrick laughs through the lump in his throat, his eyes burning with tears. “You’re wrong again. I happen to know for a fact that you are both very smart and really fucking pretty.”

David beams. He tugs Patrick back into the apartment, away from the eager stares of curious onlookers on the street below. It’s a small studio apartment, but clearly David’s, a stark black and white aesthetic with crisp lines and a modern edge. He’s seen David in every state of undress and yet he’s never seen him so naked as this, standing awkwardly in the middle of his own apartment, wary eyes tracking Patrick’s every move. 

Patrick desperately wants to touch David, but knows he still needs to say a few things first. He retreats to David’s sleek black leather sofa while David stays perched on the ledge of the window. He tells David about what he discovered about Raine Corp and how Edward Raine had been trying to divest his company before the truth came out, about how he called the SEC to report them, about how he quit his job when he realized his firm was full of unethical money-hungry jerks and he couldn’t do it anymore, how he wants to be a better version of himself. 

And then in a voice so quiet David has to strain to hear him, Patrick says, “At least Sebastien can’t hurt you or your family anymore.”

David’s face is doing very strange things. There’s a fiery edge to the lines of his face, the taut angles of his still body, but Patrick can also see the tenderness invading his eyes, softening all the brittle, breakable parts that David tries to pull inward to shield from the rest of the world. 

“You did all that….because of me?”

“I did it for us.” Patrick pauses to suck in some air. There’s still one more thing that has to be said, a word as yet unspoken.“David, I love you. I’m in love with you. And I’m ready to change my whole life on the hope that you just might feel the same way.”

“But you’ve only known me a week,” David finally replies. 

Patrick decides to give David the whole impossible truth. “I knew after our first night. David, there’s no one else for me but you.” 

Patrick’s stomach is careening to bottomless depths as he waits for David to respond. If David sends him away again, he doesn’t know how he’ll carry on. 

“I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw you in that blue suit with that face and those eyes.” David finally admits with a tremulous laugh.

“Yes, I’ve been told I have a face and some eyes.” Patrick’s voice is teasing, but his face is shining like the Empire State Building lit up at night. 

“You’re like a heart-eyes emoji come to life,” David says with watery eyes. “I think you ruined me for anyone else.” Patrick thinks David might have wanted to say something else, but he hasn’t worked up the courage yet. But Patrick can wait. There's time now for that.

“Well, I am the best you’ve ever had,” Patrick smirks.

“Don’t get cocky, Mr. Brewer.” 

“Oh, I think you love it when I get cocky. "

“I actually really do,” David gives him a small smile. Does Patrick detect a faint blush on his cheeks?

“OK then. I’ll move to New York as soon as I can.”

“No.” 

“No?”

“No, I don’t want you to move here.”

And there’s no stopping the look that Patrick knows is on his face right now: absolute devastation. 

David barrels forward, finding his footing now, drenching himself in courage. “But that’s because I don’t want to stay here either.”

“Oh.”

“I…I love you too, Patrick.” He stops to clear his throat. “And I thought that maybe you wouldn’t mind moving somewhere else. With me. Together.”

“Anywhere,” Patrick agrees without hesitation. 

“Somewhere like Schitt’s Creek?” David asks painfully, hopefully. He acts like just saying the words fill his mouth with a bitter taste. 

At this point, Patrick would follow David to the moon and back, no questions asked, but Patrick meets David’s eyes, searching for signs that this is what he wants.

“Sure. Like Schitt’s Creek. I miss living in a small town. I’d be closer to my parents too. I’d like that.”

“I’m a little embarrassed to go back. But I also want to. A little? I mean, my family’s there and they’re crazy and obnoxious and infuriating.” 

“But you miss them.” 

“Yeah,” David sighs. “I think I really do.”

“Then, David, let’s go to Schitt’s Creek.” 

“Ok.” 

And David smiles, just a small raise of the lips, but it’s enough. It’s enough for Patrick to close the space between them, to draw David into his arms, and tilt his head down to meet his own. They kiss, deep and bright and full. It’s a kiss for the end of the world, a kiss for making the world disappear. But it’s also a kiss for the start of a brave new world, a brave new life that they’ll build together in a town called Schitt’s Creek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent very limited amount of time in New York City, but Google Earth is a modern writer’s best friend. Almost all the descriptions of the places David and Patrick visit came from extensive googling and poring over satellite imagery. I explored all of Chinatown that way and even decided the exact address where David lives. It’s 61 Bayard Street if anyone is interested.


	9. epilogue: a world of dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David takes Patrick back to Schitt's Creek. 
> 
> Or: how they always end up right where they're supposed to be.

David brings Patrick back to Schitt’s Creek and says very little as he shows him the broken pieces of his past: the motel, the café, even the Amish farm where he’d stopped for a night during his madcap escape to New York all those years ago. They buy fresh churned butter with homemade bread and admire their hand-stitched quilts and an idea blossoms in David that cannot be contained. 

“If you really want this, if you really want to build something together,” David finally says one evening, curled up in the crook of Patrick’s arm, hand splayed across his chest, “I know how we do it.” 

And Patrick just nods and says, “Yes. Let’s do it.” And so they stay. 

They find an apartment in town, sign the lease for the vacant general store, and pour what remains of Patrick’s savings from his former life into their shared dream. They oscillate over the name, talking circles around each of the possibilities, before Patrick declares Rose Apothecary just pretentious enough and the oscillations cease. David insists on a sand and stone color scheme for the store inspired, he claims, by the Whitney because underneath it all he’s a hopeless romantic. They’ve both never been happier, never been more satisfied by a day’s work, never tired of falling into each other’s arms at night after long days spent dancing within each other’s sight on the storeroom floor. 

Alexis calls Patrick a "sweet little button face", Moira declares Patrick sees David for "all that he is", while Johnny just claps Patrick on the back and calls him "son." And suddenly, inextricably, undeniably, Patrick is one of them. The town embraces them and their store in the way only Schitt’s Creek can do, integrating them into their celebrations and community events, baseball leagues and theatrical endeavors. One is rarely seen without the other, so much so that their names start to bleed together in the townspeople’s minds. Roland tries to call them Davrick, once, to their faces, to which David replies, “Oh no. We’re not doing _that_.” But he’s secretly delighted, thinks they’ve unlocked gold level status that very few relationships have achieved and it fills his chest with something he now recognizes as pride.

When asked where they met, though, they simply say New York. If pressed, David might say the Whitney. Patrick will say through work. Very few people know the truth—Stevie, of course, and Alexis, who no doubt tells Ted. Not their parents. Never their parents even though David suspects that Moira has guessed the truth. Patrick tells David it’s going to be hard enough to tell his parents he’s gay let alone how he met the man he now knows will be his husband. 

“My parents are good people,” Patrick confesses to David on their way to meet the Brewers for the first time, “But I don’t want them to have any reason to judge you. I want them to love you for exactly who you are now, not what you’ve been. Is that okay?” 

And David nods along like it could be that simple and is surprised to find that it is. Marcy and Clint fold him into their lives like their son has found a rare treasure and they love David for the way he slips joy into every corner of Patrick’s once suffocating life. They see the way Patrick looks at David like he’s found the sun and how he laughs with him in a way they’d thought he’d forgotten and they whisper to each other, _“Yes, this one”_ and don’t ask for more. 

It doesn’t take long before Patrick tricks David into going on a real hike with an incline and trees and dirt and squirrels and though David complains the whole way, the view is so heart-stoppingly breathtaking and the gold rings Patrick slides onto his fingers so majestically right, David's ecstatic yes reverberates through the valley and then settles into their chests as their lips find each other again and again and again. 

Patrick and David marry in a summer ceremony, Patrick in his blue Prada suit, David wearing a black tie with rows of white roses. The twilight sun is sliding into the horizon as they dance together cheek to cheek, whispering a world of dreams into each other’s ears.

“Do you remember how I told you I wanted the fairy tale?” David asks, adjusting Patrick’s tie just like he did the first night they met. 

“It rings a bell.”

“I think this is it. This is the fairy tale.”

“You think so?”

“You told me once what David means. Do you remember?”

“I remember.” Patrick smiles his soft, indulgent smile, the one that only David can pull from his lips and wonders where this conversation is going. Patrick has learned all of David’s keys, knows how to play him better than any piano now. There’s a lightness to David’s words, but Patrick also knows David’s being serious and he can’t tease him too much right now or David won’t reveal himself. 

“Do you know what Patrick means?”

Patrick shrugs, but his face shines like it always does when David’s face is aimed at his, like he’s incandescent with happiness. “I always thought it had something to do with the saint from Ireland.”

David shakes his head, biting his lips to not spoil the surprise too soon. “It means born of noble blood.”

“Huh,” Patrick says, warmth spreading out from the center of his being like it always does in David’s embrace. 

“You see? You really are a prince. And you rescued me, Patrick, my prince.”

“You rescued me right back, David, my beloved.” 

“You know, I think ours is better than all the other fairy tales.”

And David gives that wry grin of his, the one Patrick loves best, that twists his mouth to one side, but still causes that dimple in his cheek to pop out, and it still makes Patrick's knees a little less steady whenever it appears. Patrick drops his eyes to David's mouth before he leans in, pressing his lips to David's, falling deeper and deeper, and thinks about happily ever afters. 

“Yes, David,” Patrick finally says, meeting David’s eyes, their two hearts of gold beating as one. “It’s better than all the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking this journey with me and loving these two idiots as much as I do. This work represents three months of writing, re-writing, and editing, and nearly quitting about fifteen different times. Thank you to all the lovely readers of Schitt's Creek fics whose passion for excellently told stories propelled me to write this in the first place. And now that this is finally done, I should probably go clean my house. Or maybe just take a nap.
> 
> For anyone who likes musical inspirations, I basically listened to Mary Lambert and the Broods on repeat while writing this. I can't recommend them enough.


End file.
